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The Works of Mrs. Gaskell 


ftnutaforl) Edition 


EIGHT VOLUMES 


1. Mary Barton 5. My Lady Ludlow 

2. Cranford 6. Sylvia’s Lovers 

3. Ruth 7. Cousin Phillis 

4. North and South 8. Wives and Daughters 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
New York 


London 


ftnuTstorO E6ttion 


THE WORKS 

OF 

MRS. GASKELL 


IN EIGHT VOLUMES 

With a General Biographical Introduction, and 
a Critical Introduction to Each Volume. 

BY 

DR. A. W. WARD 

Master of Peterhouse, Cambridge 

WHO HAS RECEIVED THE KIND ASSISTANCE OF THE 


MISSES GASKELL 


**Mr8. Gaskell has done what neither I nor other female 
writers in France can accomplish — she has written novels 
which excite the deepest interest in men of the world, and 
yet which every girl will be the better for reading.” 


OEORae SAND 


✓ 







■Rnutsforb E&ttlon 


SYLVIA’S LOVERS 


BY 


mrs^gXSkell 

V>» ’ ' 


To which is added 
All Italian Institution 


WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY 

DR. A. W. WARD 

Master of Peterhouse, Cambridge 


NEW YORK : G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
LONDON: SMITH, ELDER, &• CO. 
1906 


TZ^ 



UBRARY of OONQRESS 

T\wiOo<h» Hvceived 

JAN 2Lb 190? 

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Copyright, igo6 
BY 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
(For Introduction) 


o > 

% ; « 


THIS BOOK 

IS DEDICATED TO 

MY DEAR HUSBAND 

BY HER 


WHO BEST KNOWS HIS VALUE 


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CONTENTS 


PAGR 

Introduction . xi 

SYLVIA’S LOVERS— 


CHAPTER 

I. 

Monkshaven 







1 

II. 

Home prom Greenland 







11 

III. 

Buying a New Cloak 

• 



• 



23 

IV. 

Philip Hepburn 

• 



• 



36 

V. 

Story of the Press-gang 




0 



47 

n. 

The Sailor’s Funeral 

• 

• 


• 

• 


60 

VII. 

TSte-a-tIite — The Will 


• 



• 


76 

. VIII. 

Attraction and Repulsion 

♦ 



• 


89 

IX. 

The Specksioneer . 


• 





102 

X. 

A Refractory Pupil 



• 

• 



113 

XI. 

Visions of the Future 



• 

• 



123 

XII. 

New Year’s FIite 

• 


• 

• 



137 

XIII. 

Perplexities 

t 

• 





164 

XIV. 

Partnership 

• 

• 





175 

XV. 

A Difficult Question 

• 

• 





186 

XVI. 

The Engagement 


• 

• 




199 

XVII. 

Rejected Warnings . 


• 

• 




210 

XVIII. 

Eddy in Love’s Current 


• 

• 




225 

XIX. 

An Important Mission 

• 

• 





236 

XX. 

Loved and Lost 

• 

• 





243 

XXI. 

A Rejected Suitor . 

• 

* 





252 


6 2 


vii 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

XXII. 

Deepening Shadows . 





. 

PAGE 

260 

XXIII. 

Retaliation 





• 

269 

XXIV. 

Brief Rejoicing . 


• 

• 


• 

280 

XXV. 

Coming Troubles 


• 

• 


• 

292 

XXVI. 

A Dreary Vigil . 


• 

• 


• 

309 

XXVII. 

Gloomy Days 


• 



• 

321 

XXVIII. 

The Ordeal . 

• 

• 


• 

• 

333 

XXIX. 

Wedding-raiment 

« 

• 

• 

• 

• 

345 

XXX. 

Happy Days . 

• 

• 

• 

0 

. 

360 

XXXI. 

Evil Omens . 

• 


• 

• 

. 

373 

XXXII. 

Rescued from the Waves 

• 



• 

• 

382 

XXXIII. 

An Apparition 





• 

394 

XXXIV. 

A Reckless Recruit . 





. 

405 

XXXV. 

Things Unutterable . 





. 

414 

XXXVI. 

Mysterious Tidings 





. 

423 

XXXVII. 

Bereavement 





• 

438 

XXXVIII. 

The Recognition 





. 

448 

XXXIX. 

Confidences 





. 

459 

XL. 

An Unexpected Messenger 




. 

471 

XLI. 

The Bedesman of St. Sepulchre 



. 

478 

XLII. 

A Fable at Fault 

. 

• 



. 

490 

XLIII. 

The Unknown 

. 

• 



. 

498 

XLIV. 

First Words 

. 

• 

• 


. 

508 

XLV. 

Saved and Lost . 

• 

• 

• 


• 

516 

AN ITALIAN INSTITUTION 

• 

t 

• 

• 

• 

531 


viii 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


Mrs. Gaskbll, 1829 


From the bust hy D, Dunbar 


View op Whitby To face page xxxiii 

From a water-colour drawing by M. G. 


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INTRODUCTION TO 
‘‘SYLVIA’S LOVERS,” ETC. 


In speaking of one of the most fascinating of Mrs. 
Gaskell’s stories, I venture once more to deprecate what, 
for want of a better phrase, I may call the impolicy of 
preferences. Some years ago, I remember, when it fell 
to my lot to have to perform the agreeable task of open- 
ing a free library in one of the suburban districts of Man- 
chester, I was, in the middle of the solemnity, somewhat 
suddenly, as it seemed to me, called upon to “take out 
the first book. ” This request imposed on me the neces- 
sity of choosing a favourite without further ado ; and I 
flatter myself that I was not wholly unequal to the occa- 
sion when I at once named The Heart of Midlothian. Man 
is, however, so constituted that, no sooner were the 
words out of my mouth, than I began to think of this 
and that objection which might be urged against the 
claims of Sir Walter Scott’s true and touching story to 
be considered his master-piece in prose fiction. And I 
went home congratulating myself on the fact that it is no 
part of the real functions of a critic to try to arrange 
the several works of an eminent writer, or even the 
names of eminent men of letters and science themselves, 
in those tables or ladders of comparative merit in which 
Lord Byron and the late Professor Tait took so much 
private delight. 

Something of the same kind was said in the introduc- 
tory remarks prefixed to an earlier volume of this edi- 
tion, containing Cranford, which still remains the most 


XI 


Introduction 

widely popular among Mrs. Gaskell’s books. But the 
case is not quite the same with Sylvia's Lovers, a 
story which sounds a deeper note. Not only does its 
charm at once attract the reader, but it gradually takes 
hold of him with overpowering force, and in the end 
leaves on him that enduring impression which nature, 
or a work of art that has sprung directly from the in- 
spiration of nature, can alone impart and perpetuate. 
How and in what happy hour this inspiration, to which 
she owed the conception of her story, and, above all, the 
conception of its heroine — a lovely creation before which 
all criticism melts away into pure delight — came to the 
authoress, who shall say? It would be almost equally 
interesting to know (though such a knowledge would be 
almost equally impossible to reach) how she proceeded 
to shape these first ideas, and to mould them into the 
form which they took in her story. For in this story, 
which is one of the life of sailors, shopkeepers, and 
peasants (or of people whose task is only a little higher 
than theirs), not a page, and hardly so much as a turn 
of phrase, is to be found, which does not seem perfectly 
true to life; and yet the novel, as a whole and in all its 
details, is one of the most refined and exquisitely delicate 
productions in the vast repertory of modem English 
fiction. All that we actually know is, that with none 
of her works did Mrs. Gaskell take such infinite pains 
as with this tale of the unvarnished joys and sorrows of 
a few simple folk. Not only did she bestow the most 
extraordinary trouble upon rendering its historical 
setting as correct as possible ; but Sylvia's Lovers is be- 
lieved to be the only one of her books of which she ever 
re-wrote any part — as she here did the scene where 
Sylvia sees Kinraid again after her marriage. In what 
measure Mrs. Gaskell had given her heart as well as her 


Xll 


“Sylvia’s Lovers,” etc. 

mind to this story is shown by an expression in a letter 
written by her about the time of its completion. “It 
is,” she says, “the saddest story I ever wrote.” 

The late Canon Ainger, who was so excellent a critic 
partly because he never tired of really good books and, 
as a rule, left the mediocre as well as the bad ones to 
take care of themselves, used to declare that the first 
two volumes of Sylvia's Lovers were “the best thing 
Mrs. Gaskell had ever done.” The restriction which 
this praise implies cannot be ignored. Like Scott’s 
immortal story, to which I have made reference, Syl- 
via's Lovers suffers in its total effect from the weak- 
ness — the comparative weakness — of much of the nar- 
rative that follows after the catastrophe of Philip’s 
flight, with the exception — the more than redeeming ex- 
ception — of the final scene of all. It may without hes- 
itation be assumed that the mistake of drawing out the 
story to so unnecessary a length was made in deference 
to an external demand. But we must take both Mrs. 
Gaskell’s story and Sir Walter Scott’s as they stand, 
and in each case rejoice that the sure tact of the writer 
has allowed no discordant note to enter into the prolonga- 
tion of a scheme in itself so perfectly harmonious. 

Sylvia's Lovers was first published, by Messrs. Smith 
and Elder, in February, 1863, with the beautiful Tenny- 
sonian motto that sounds the deepest depth of the 
story, and with the tender dedication to the “dear hus- 
band” of the authoress. A second edition, with four 
illustrations by Du Maurier, followed in the same year. 
One of these illustrations — that of “ Sylvia learning her 
lesson” — shows how completely this delightful artist 
had caught the charm of the figure which his pencil 
reproduced; he was fascinated by the story, and gave 
the name of Sylvia to a child that was bom to him at the 

xiii 


Introduction 


time when he was illustrating Mrs. Gaskell’s book.* 
Before the year 1863 was out, Baron Tauchnitz had 
“impressed” the novel for a copyright edition in that 
series which has earned the gratitude of so many thou- 
sands of irresponsible wanderers. At home other editions 
followed; and in 1865 Messrs. Hachette brought out at 
Pari? a French translation by M. E. D. Forgues under 
the title “Les Amoureux de Sylvia.” The title of the 
original novel had, by the way, caused the writer some 
searching of heart, before she made the happy choice 
on which she ultimately determined. For who would 
miss from the superscription of this story the irresistible 
name of its irresistible little heroine. “There ’s a deal, ” 
said Sylvia, when in the course of things there was a 
discussion how to call her baby — 

“ — ‘in having a pretty name. I ha’ allays h-ated being called 
Sylvia. It were after father’s mother, Sylvia Steele. ’ 

‘“I niver thought any name in a’ the world so sweet and 
pretty as Sylvia,’ said Philip, fondly.” 

Not one of “Sylvia’s lovers,” among whom all the 
readers of this story have come to reckon themselves, 
but will agree with her devoted husband. And there 
are probably few among those readers who are not glad 
that Mrs. Gaskell, after rejecting “the rather hackneyed 

* In Miss Edith Sichel’s welcome ‘‘Life and Letters of Canon 
Ainger, ” I find a letter to him from his beloved friend Du Maurier, 
written in 1891, when Ainger for the first time visited Whitby. 
‘‘It is delightful,” Du Maurier writes, ‘‘to get a letter fom you 
at Whitby — the place we all like the best in the world.” And he 
bids his correspondent tell his nieces, who were to make a longer 
stay at ‘‘Monkshaven” than their uncle, inter alia, ‘‘to walk 
along the cliffs westward from the Spa, through fields and over 
stiles, till they reach Sylvia Robson’s cottage (of course they 
know their Slyvia's Lovers by heart).” (The site of the Hay- 
tersbank farm was on the way to Robin Hood’s Bay, to the 
south-east of Whitby. “ Sylvia’s cottage’ ’ is of course a misnomer.) 


XIV 


“Sylvia’s Lovers,” etc. 

title of Too Late, did not adhere to the notion of 
substituting that of The Specksioneer, which, as she 
explains to her correspondent, means a “harpooner in 
a whaling-ship” — Kinraid’s first step on the ladder. 
This last would no doubt have been a capital title for a 
tale of adventure pure and simple; and no hero could 
have better suited the boys who read it than Charlie 
Kinraid — senza Sylvia. “Philip’s Idol” — a title of 
deep meaning, but a meaning only made clear in the 
last scene of the story (“ Child, I ha’ made thee my idol ”) , 
was another name for it also thought of in passing ; and 
so — almost inevitably — was “ Monkshaven.” 

We all know “Monkshaven,” the story’s scene from 
which our thoughts and interest never stray far, though 
the vicissitudes through which some of the actors in the 
tale pass may . carry us from the “grey and terrible 
icebergs” in the Greenland Seas to the “purple heat” of 
St. Jean d’Acre, which, as Mrs. Kinraid had duly in- 
formed herself, is “in the Holy Land, where Jersualem 
is, you know.” Monkshaven is, of course, Whitby, the 
busy “fisher town” which grew up at the foot of the 
great Abbey of St. Hilda, famous in the history of English 
Christianity, and learning, and poetry (as Csedman’s 
Cross now stands on the height to testify). The abbey 
has been a ruin for centuries; but the ancient parish 
church of St. Mary’s, which stands beside it, and whose 
interior, so nautical and so comfortable at the same time, 
has happily remained untouched by the restorer’s ruth- 
less hand, must still be much what it was in the day when 
good Dr. Wilson mumbled over his sermons there to 
his congregation in the pews or on the “heavy oaken 
benches, which, by the united efforts of several men, 
might be brought within earshot of the pulpit,” Little 
changed, too, is the churchyard, that “great plain of 

XV 


Introduction 


Upright gravestones, recording the names of so many 
masters, mariners, ship-owners, seamen,” and the long 
flights of stone steps leading up to church and church- 
yard from the town below, “severed into two parts by 
the bright, shining river,” with its large, hospitable 
basin behind the bridge. The town itself has, of course, 
altered, since, thanks to the extraordinary enterprise 
of more than one man of note, Whitby has become one 
of the favourite sea-bathing places in the kingdom; 
it has long since abandoned the whale-fishery — or the 
the whale-fishery, whose home seat seems to be ever 
moving further north,* has deserted it; but you may 
still see the cattle on the cliffs rubbing their flanks 
against a stray couple of whale-ribs; and you may still 
set sail, as I have done with a trustier navigator than 
myself, from the staithes in a coble, though it is to carry 
you no further than past Robin Hood’s Bay to Scar- 
borough. And, for all I know, the farmsteads are still 
but slightly changed in the dales, and on the cliffs that 
overtop the “bottoms” running down to the sea — in 
one of which, at Haytersbank, in a green hollow, with 
pasture fields surrounding it, honest Daniel Robson, the 
sailor-farmer, lived and had his being, with the truest 
wife man ever had, and the prettiest lass of a daughter, 
and for his farm-servant Kester, taciturn, profound, and 
faithful to the end. 

Mrs. Gaskell, it appears, visited Whitby in 1859; but 
she had, of course, long been more or less familiar with 
the north-eastern English coast, between whose harbours 
there is a sort of continuity not unusual on a coast-line 

* Southey’s “Doctor” hoped that it would stop altogether 
when gas-lights came into general use; but this depends on the 
whales rather than on the industry, whose interesting beginnings 
have recently been so thoroughly investigated by Sir Martin 
Conway. 


XVI 


“Sylvia’s Lovers,” etc. 

inhabited by a large and active fishing population. Her 
father, it will be remembered, was a native of Berwick- 
on -Tweed; and a year or two before her marriage she 
had spent a winter “ Newcassel way.” Above all, she had, 
if the expression be permissible, plenty of naval blood 
in her veins; since her grandfather. Captain Stevenson, 
and two of her uncles, John and Joseph, were in the 
Royal Navy. 

She was thus, from her childhood upwards, keenly 
interested in the sayings and doings of naval men, and 
of mariners of all kinds ; and this interest reflects itself in 
her writings. No figure in Mary Barton is more life- 
like than that of the sailor Will Wilson, the blind Mar- 
garet’s lover; and no scenes are fresher and more faithful 
to life than those concerned with the chase of a merchant- 
man by a cockboat in the mouth of the Mersey. Cran- 
ford has for its dens ex machind, if not a mariner, at 
least a traveller through many remote and unfriendly 
seas. In My Lady Ludlow Captain James, a retired 
naval officer, puts an end to a difficult situation in 
sailor-fashion by ignoring its difficulty. Mrs. Gaskell 
was, as it were, instinctively drawn to sailors, their ways, 
and their character ; and nothing could have been more 
natural than that she should have laid the scene of a 
story which came so closely home to her in the very 
midst of a seafaring population, and among all the 
associations of seafaring life. 

It was, however, a particular epoch in the annals of the 
British navy, and a “peculiar institution” very much 
to the fore in that epoch, of which, in devising the plot 
of her new novel, she resolved to make use as the very 
pivot of its construction. Whether or not the idea of 
founding the plot of a story upon the system of impress- 
ment in the British navy, and the doings of the press-gang 


XVll 


Introduction 


when at the height of its activity along our coasts, had 
occurred to her before she first came across a striking 
example of that activity and its consequences in the 
local traditions of Whitby, it would of course be now 
useless to enquire. Most certainly the existence of the 
system, the hardships which it inflicted, and the indig- 
nation which it aroused, could not but take hold of the 
imagination of one interested as she was in the history 
of our navy and of our sailors. The press-gang and its 
doings formed an organic part of that history during 
the generations of which the traditions had descended 
to her from her forbears; and, to one whom, like herself, 
all injustice, and any act of oppression revolted, the 
offences of this institution must have seemed offences 
that had long cried to Heaven. But, again, it is 
only natural that in the days when Sylvia's Lovers, 
was first published, and still more so in our own, memo- 
ries which in Mrs. Gaskell’s youth had been by no means 
remote, should have ceased to come home very closely to 
Englishwomen. Unless I mistake, such of the laws 
for regulating impressment, passed from the days of 
Philip and Mary (who lost Calais all the same) to those 
of George III., as still remained in our statute-book at 
the close of his reign are still unrepealed. But there is 
no fear of their repose being disturbed; and if now and 
then a recurrence of such cruel practices should be noted 
within the sphere of British administration — why, it is 
quite sure to be a long way off.* 

* Writing from Benares in February, 1885, the late Lord 
Randolph Churchill described the impressment by the magis- 
trate and police of Bheesties, or water-carriers, for service in the 
Soudan, and the agitation caused by these proceedings. “This 
little incident of our rule,” he added, “goes far to explain why 
we make no progress in popularity among the people.” (W. S. 
Churchill, Lord Randolph Churchill, vol. i. p. 563.) 

xviii 


“Sylvia’s Lovers,” etc. 

The impressment system itself is described with perfect 
lucidity, and at the same time with perfect accuracy, in 
the introductory chapter of Sylvia's Lovers. In the 
clearness of its exposition that chapter once more* recalls 
the old-fashioned manner of Sir Walter Scott, nowhere 
more simply and more effectively employed by him than 
in The Heart of Midlothian. Modern novelists are at 
great pains to disguise a necessity which they cannot 
deny; and indeed they go a step further, and regret the 
necessity of the explanation which they find indis- 
pensable for introducing the chief characters of their 
stories. The late W. T. Arnold had collected (for the 
purposes of the present edition) several passages from 
that most readable of modem English novelists Anthony 
Trollope, in which he dwells on the irksomeness of these 
inevitable initial explanations; and he clinched them 
with a quotation from the ingenious author of The 
Prisoner of Zenda: “When I read a story, I skip the 
explanations; yet, the moment I begin to write one, I 
find that I must have an explanation.” But this by the 
way; though it is worth pointing out that in Sylvia's 
Lovers, after the general introduction, the action im- 
mediately begins with the singularly premonitory 
chapter, “Home from Greenland.” In any case, Mrs. 
Gaskell’s exposition of the system of impressment, 
more especially as it affected our coast population, makes 
it superfluous to add more than one or two further words 
on the subject. 

The use of that system, to which constant resort had 
been made in the days of the American War, seems to 
have reached its height with the outbreak, in 1793, of 
our war against France. However much our ministers 
may, after war had once been declared, have, as Mrs. 
Gaskell says, fomented the anti-Gallican spirit of which 


XIX 


Introduction 


the country was full, the responsibility for that declara- 
tion can certainly not be laid at their door. But they 
had, none the less, to meet the demands of the crisis. 
Our ships had to be manned; but, however popular the 
war with France might be, so much could certainly not be 
asserted at that time of the service in the Royal Navy. 
It was supplied for the most part by youths and men 
who were pressed into the service — in the large majority 
of cases, against their will, and at times by the use of the 
utmost violence. Under the existing laws all eligible 
men of seafaring habits, between the ages of eighteen 
and fifty-five, were liable to impressment — with certain 
exceptions, the due observance of which there were 
many facilities for evading. Among these exceptions 
were, as is quite correctly stated in our story, harpooners 
in whaling ships as well as fishermen afloat, and a pro- 
portion of seamen in each collier. Sailors in merchant- 
men were in nowise exempt, nor sailors in privateers; 
and indeed it is stated that our men-of-war were often 
engaged in chasing privateers with the same determina- 
tion which they displayed in bearing down upon a French 
adversary. 

It is not without some difficulty that, at this distance 
of time, one can understand how two forces, though both 
very strong — the force of patriotism and the force of 
habit — could prevail against the unavoidable conse- 
quences of so evil a system. With one of these results 
we have no special concern on the present occasion. 
That the impressed sailors should have frequently been 
out of spirits and out of heart to begin with, and should 
in many instances have remained so in a service with 
many hardships and uncertain advantages, is the reverse 
of surprising. The impressment system, and the way 
in which it was worked, cannot but have contributed to 


XX 


“Sylvia’s Lovers,” etc. 

foster the discontent and ill-will which came to an out- 
break in the most humiliating episode in the history of the 
war — the great mutiny at Spit head and the Nore in 1797 ; 
although the main grievances for which the mutineers 
demanded redress turned on questions of pay and pro- 
visions, distribution of prize money, and discipline.* ‘ 

But a further consequence, and one of which the re- 
membrance long remained with the inhabitants of our 
seaports, was the effect of the system upon the whole 
of our seafaring folk within the reach of its operation. 
In one of the most pathetic of the stories of real life 
told by a poet whose sympathy with the poor and un- 
fortunate we know to have specially attracted Mrs. 
Gaskell, she could hardly have failed to have read of the 
woes of the unhappy maiden whose sailor love had been 
torn from her only a day or two before that appointed 
for their marriage, through the brutal intervention of 
the press-gang. The tale of Ruth must have been 
written by Crabbe under the impression of scenes enacted 
in or near the little Suffolk seaport whose name he has 
rendered familiar to us all, during the course of the war 
which had not long been at an end, when — in 1819 — - 
the Tales of the Hally of which Ruth is one, were 
published. I make no apology for reprinting a passage 
eminently characteristic of its author, but not more 
so in its prudent reservations than in the noble spirit of 
sympathy and of indignation which animates these lines. 

“Fix’d was the day; but, ere that day appear’d, 

A frightful rumour through the place was heard; 

War, who had slept awhile, awaked once more, 

* “Jack’s mutiny,’’ says Dr. Fitchett in his patriotic book, 
“was based not on ‘the rights of man,’ but on the villainous 
condition of the beef-tub.’’ But Jack’s own patriotism, it 
must be allowed, had, in other ways, too, not been very assidu- 
ously nurtured. 


XXI 


Introduction 

And gangs came pressing till they swept the shore. 
Our youth was seized and quickly sent away ; 

Nor would the wretches for his marriage stay, 

But bore him off, in barbarous triumph bore. 

And left us all our miseries to deplore. 

There were wives, maids, and mothers on the beach, 
And some sad story appertain’d to each ; 

Most sad to Ruth — to neither could she go. 

But sat apart, and suffer’d matchless wo ! 

On the vile ship they turn’d their earnest view. 

Not one last [look] allow’d — not one adieu ! 

They saw the men on deck, but none distinctly knew. 
And there she staid, regardless of each eye. 

With but one hope, a fervent hope to die. 

Nor cared she now for kindness — all beheld 
Her, who invited none, and none repell’d; 

For there are griefs, my child, that sufferers hide, 

And there are griefs that men display with pride ; 

But there are other griefs that, so we feel, 

We care not to display them nor conceal. 

Such were our sorrows on that fatal day ; 

More than our lives the spoilers tore away; 

Nor did we heed their insult — some distress 
No form or manner can make more or less; 

And this is of that kind — this misery of a press ! 

They say such things must be — perhaps they must — 
But, sure, they need not fright us and disgust; 

They need not soulless crews of ruffians send 
At once the ties of humble love to rend. 

A single day had Thomas stay’d on shore. 

He might have wedded, and we ask’d no more; 

And that stern man, who forced the lad away. 

Might have attended, and have graced the day; 

His pride and honour might have been at rest; 

It is no stain to make a couple blest ! 

Blest ! — no, alas ! it was to ease the heart 
Of one sore pang, and then to weep and part ! 

But this he would not. — English seamen fight 
For England’s gain and glory — it is right; 

But will that public spirit be so strong. 

Fill’d, as it must be, with their private wrong? 

xxii 


“Sylvia’s Lovers,” etc. 

Forbid it, honour, one in all the fleet 
Should hide in war or from the foe retreat ! 

But is it just, that he who so defends 

His country’s cause should hide him from her friends? 

Sure, if they must upon our children seize. 

They might prevent such injuries as these; 

Might hours — nay, days — in many a case allow, 

And soften all the griefs we suffer now ! 

Some laws, some orders might in part redress 
The licensed insults of a British press. 

That keeps the honest and the brave in awe. 

Where might is right, and violence is law. 

Be not alarm’d, my child; there ’s none regard 
What you and I conceive so cruel-hard. 

There is compassion, I believe; but still 
One wants the power to help, and one the will; 

And so from war to war the wrongs remain. 

While Reason pleads, and Misery sighs, in vain.” 

Crabbe’s tale supplies an account of what must have 
been an incident common enough in the violent processes 
inseparable from what was called at the time “a hot 
press.” The system was both widespread in its opera- 
tion, and regularly organised — for the press-gangs, or, 
as they were more politely termed, the Impress Service, 
were distributed in districts placed under captains in the 
Royal Navy, and sub-districts under lieutenants. Such 
a sub-district was that of Whitby, where a “rendezvous” 
— the technical name for a house of call, and if necessary 
a place of protection, for the gang — -was established in 
Haggersgate, no doubt at some inn or public-house, 
the original of the Mariner’s Arms, so graphically de- 
scribed in our story. In 1793, as an immediate conse- 
quence of what special provocation (if any) we are not 
informed, a most serious riot occurred at Whitby. The 
sailors in the town rose against the press-gang, and, 
having forced them to abscond, demolished their “ren- 
dezvous.” An old man who was seen encouraging the 

xxiti 


Introduction 


sailors, was subsequently tried, condemned, and exe- 
cuted at York as one of the ringleaders in the riot. 

Mrs. Gaskell, who had heard of these facts and in 
whose mind they were shaping themselves into the 
foundations of the plot of her projected story, took all 
possible pains to obtain such details as were procurable. 
A Whitby resident, Mr. John Corney (whose name she 
has perpetuated in her story) sent her some information 
with regard to the riot of the year 1793 ; though he was 
at the same time careful to quote to her the remark of 
the Rev. George Young, in his History of Whitby 
{Whitby 2 vols., 1817), apropos of the Whitby Volun- 
teers, that the inhabitants of Whitby are not much 
given to riot, but are, in general, peaceable and loyal; 
and in seasons of danger have been ready to stand for 
the defence of their country. “I have,” Mr. Corney 
wrote, “had some conversation with an old tradesman, 
now in his eighty-fourth year, who well remembers the 
circumstances. The name of the man who was executed 
was Atkinson; at the same time there was a woman 
transported for life for aiding the rioters, named Hannah 
Hobbs.” 

It was no doubt by inquiring at the Admiralty that 
Mrs. Gaskell hereupon obtained a copy of the following 
letter, addressed by Lieutenant Atkinson, R.N. (the 
coincidence of name is curious). Keeper of the Whitby 
Rendezvous, to Philip Stephens, Esq., probably an 
official at the Admiralty. 

“Please acquaint my Lords Commissionaires [_sic\ of the 
Admiralty that on Saturday the 23'^‘i instant at half past seven 
o’clock my rendezvous was attacked by a mob, in number as 
far as near as I could judge about a thousand (Men and Women). 
The women supplied the men with large stones and bricks; the 
windows of the house was instantly demolished, but the resistance 
of the Gang kept them out till nine, when with Capston bars 


XXIV 


“Sylvia’s Lovers,” etc. 

they broke the door to pieces and rushed in, as many as the House 
and yard could contain; they turned the Gang out, and treated 
them in the most savage and cruel manner, some of them nearly 
murdered; the furniture of the House destroyed and carried off, 
the landlord almost killed, and the actions of this banditti was 
of the most horrid nature. We received no military aid: that 
on Captains Shortland, Lieutenant Okes, and myself wait- 
ing on Lord Darlington was informed by his Lordship that he 
could not act without a magistrate; and am sorry to say the 
Magistrates have paid very little attention to the duty on which 
we are employed; but, to do justice to Major Yeoman, I must 
add that he has not been able from extreme illness to render us his 
services. On Sunday I collected the major part of my gang and 
brought them to the rendezvous in order to get their wounds 
drest, and taken care of in the best manner I could ; at 9 o’clock 
at night another Mob assembled in order to pull down the house ; 
they entered, drove the gang out, and repeated their cruelties; 
destroyed the few things which the well disposed neighbours 
had lent us. At this time Lord Darlington with about 200 of 
his men and Mr. Moorsome, a Magistrate, came to our assistance, 
and the rioters immediately dispersed, by which means the 
House was saved, but much damaged. The ringleaders are the 
protected men in the Greenland Ships, and the Carpenters. 
I beg to mention for their Lordships’ consideration, that Captain 
Shortland on Saturday afternoon the day of the riot, supplied 
me with twenty guineas for the use of the Service, eighteen of 
which I deposited in the bureau in my lodging-room, a sum too 
much to carry about me, which was taken away with my cloaths 
and papers : and as it will be very inconvenient for me to sustain 
the loss, I humbly hope upon this extraordinary occasion their 
lordships will be pleased to allow me the sum unavoidably lost. 
I have the honour to be Sir, your most obed‘ humble servant, 
W. H. Atkinson. 

“Rendezvous at Whitby Feb'^y 26^** 1793.” 

Mrs. Gaskell also possessed herself of the following 
entries, which speak for themselves — 

Copied from Calendar of Felons and Malefactors to be tried at the 
Assizes holden at York on the 18th day of March, 1793. 

“William Atkinson, Hannah Hobson, John Harrison late of the 


XXV 


Introduction 


parish of Whitby in the North Riding committed Feb. 26*’', 1793, 
charged on subpoena of a Felony in having with divers other 
persons then unknown, on Sat. 23^. of the saihe month about 
nine o’clock at night riotously assembled themselves together 
against the peace of our Lord the King, and with force and arms, 
unlawfully begun to pull down r.nd demolish the dwelling House 
of John Cooper of Whitby aforesaid Shoe Maker. 

"General Gaol Delivery. 

“William Atkinson, hanged 13^*' April, 1793. 

“Hannah Hobson, respited. 

“John Harrison, Not Guilty.” 

Not content with having thus secured the historical 
foundations on which she proposed to construct the 
edifice of her story, Mrs. Gaskell took infinite pains to 
ensure the truthfulness of its historical as well as local 
colouring. She was in constant correspondence with 
General Perronet Thompson (for many years Member 
for Hull, and author of the Anti-Corn Law Catechism) 
concerning the practices of the press-gang; and she 
frequented the British Museum on the same quest, 
besides consulting on the subject no less an authority 
than the redoubtable Sir Charles Napier, sometime in 
command of the Channel Fleet. A letter addressed by 
General Thompson to his niece Isabel (afterwards Mrs. 
William Sidgwick, and one of Mrs. Gaskell’s cherished 
and devoted friends), while the story was in progress,* 
seems worth quoting, more especially as it incidentally 
shows how short is the interval which separates us from 
a date at which the revival of the press-gang was still 
thought within the range of possibility. 

* General Perronet Thompson took a keen interest in the form 
as well as in the matter of Mrs. Gaskell’s story, and sent her some 
suggestions as to the dialect, which, as a good Yorkshireman, he 
was anxious to preserve as free as possible from Lancashire 
influences. 


XXVI 


“Sylvia’s Lovers,” etc. 

From General Perronet Thompson to Miss Thompson. 

“Elliot Vale, Blackheath. 

“February 3rd [i860 or ’61?.] 

“I think that upon your data any attorney at York MJ'ould find 
out the whole with ease, provided always that the thing be there. 

“I feel somewhat doubtful on this last point, first, because I 
think I should have heard of it before ; and, secondly, because an 
affair took place at Hull, with quite a different result, but in 
which there is likeness enough for one to be taken for the other. 
At one period about your date (or probably, I should think 
later) and doubtless in the month of October, a whale-ship called 
the Blenheim came to port with stores of oil and what not; and 
the men, seeing the boats of a ship of war which in those days 
lay off the port (cognomen Nonsuch) lying in wait to impress 
them, landed with their whale knives (fearful weapons) in their 
hands, and declared their resolution not to be impressed. The 
collision took place, as I have been informed, near Dr. Alderson’s 
door in Charlotte St., and a man of the press-gang was killed. 
The killer was tried at York, and acquitted; on the ground, as 
Hull at least understands, that it was a legitimate resistance. 
As having some connection with the history, you may be amused 
to know, that at some period about 1836 there was a talk of 
having recourse to impressment. And Seth (?) Buckingham 
(an old Sailor and Member for I forget where) and myself who 
was then a Member for Hull, went to the Secretary of the Ad- 
miralty and told him, we had had a verdict at York and should 
show fight; and I remember adding that it was most probable 
I should be applied to for advice touching the conduct of the 
battle. The people of Hull call it to this day ‘The Battle of the 
Blenheim. ’ ’’ 

The unwearied endeavours of the writer to ensure an 
accurate statement of the facts entering into the frame- 
work of her novel were rewarded by the unbroken effect 
which is produced by the whole of its course, from the 
return of the whaling-fleet and the first manoeuvres of 
the press-gang to its final outrage (so far as the story is 
concerned) in the capture of the specksioneer. Oddly 
enough, the single detail as to which she made a slip in 
the first edition of her book, had no concern with naval 

xxvii 


Introduction 


matters, but rather with English legal procedure. It 
was not of the slightest intrinsic importance, and was 
rectified, in later editions; but the following passage 
from a letter written by her just after the appearance 
of the first edition is of interest, as showing the admira- 
tion entertained for Sylvia's Lovers by a very eminent 
lawyer, who had at the same time, to use an expression 
of his friend Matthew Arnold, “a good deal of literature 
in his soul. 

“There is only one thing” (in Sylvia's Lovers) “I should 
like to alter. Some one — Judge Coleridge — as far as I can make 
out, from arms, &c., and from Judge Crompton’s testimony as 
to the hand- writing — sent me an anonymous letter ‘from an 
old lawyer,' saying I had made a mistake in old Daniel’s trial, 
in representing the counsel for the defence as making a speech 
for the prisoner. Whereas, at that time, they were not allowed 
to do so; only to watch the case and examine witnesses.” 

That, too, has been altered since; but, speech or no 
speech, there would have been short shrift for poor 
Daniel in those cruel days. 

There is another background to the stor>^ of Sylvia's 
Lovers besides that of historical fact — but on this no 
common pen can dwell. It is the landscape— -the sea- 
scape, if you will — which gives to this story a setting as 
characteristic as it is beautiful. From the moment when 
we first meet Sylvia and her companion, on their ac- 
customed way, with their baskets of eggs on their arms, 

* Among other eminent contemporaries who cherished a warm 
admiration for Sylvia' s Lovers was Dr. Liddell, the late Dean 
of Christ Church, who said (something as Ampere said of the 
Life of Charlotte Bronte) that this story of Mrs. Gaskell’s 
was “like a Greek tragedy, for power.” Bishop Thirlwall, too, 
it is on record, occupied a journey from St. David’s to Fryston, 
in Yorkshire, in reading Sylvia's Lovers, and “did not think 
the journey long.’! 

xxviii 


“Sylvia’s Lovers,” etc. 

from their country homes to the turn in the road on the 
grassy cliff, whence they can see the red-peaked roofs and 
the closely-packed houses of Monkshaven — the sea is 
around her and us. We first glance across it as a blue, 
sunny surface, on which float, apparently motionless, 
scores of white-sailed fishing-boats. But, later, we are 
brought face to face with it in the hour of the highest tide, 
in the midst of the tempest and its dangers, the foaming 
waters coming up with a roar and a furious dash against 
the cliffs. And, at the last, it is present to us, lying 
dark in the silence of midnight, with “its ceaseless 
waves lapping against the shelving shore.” The sea, 
in its infinite variety and in its unfathomable depth, 
is the fitting environment of this story of vain regrets 
and hopes that are vainer still, save those profoundly 
hidden in the soul, and awaiting fulfilment beyond the 
dim horizon — “behind the veil.” 

And yet, with a framework so carefully constructed, 
and an outlook into distances so mysterious, the story 
of Sylvia's Lovers is but a story of the human pas- 
sions which all of us have in common — ^love and jealousy 
— at work in the breasts of a small group of plain folk; 
and the lesson taught by it is that simple one which poor 
little Sylvia thinks it impossible to learn — the divine 
lesson of forgiveness. Plain folk : yet with how fine 
and how firm an artistic handling the figures are at the 
same time assimilated to their homely surroundings, 
and differentiated from each other ! How excellent 
are the early scenes in Haytersbank farm — the self- 
centered loquacity of Daniel Robson, every tone in whose 
talk and every thought in whose mind are intelligible 
to the silent reasonableness of his wife; and the fresh 
loveliness of “Sylvie,” and the stolid wisdom and worth 
of Kester. Of the two rival lovers, the gallant speck- 


XXIX 


Introduction 

sioneer is not more successfully drawn than the careful 
and conscientious draper — the one endowed with all 
the victorious fascinations of manly strength and a 
light heart, the other introspective, distrustful of him- 
self where other interests are concerned than those of the 
firm of Foster Brothers, and therefore loved only when 
he is really known, or when, as in Hester’s case, love 
itself supplies the place of knowledge. The story, though 
full of adventure and action, evolves itself with perfect 
naturalness out of the inevitable relations between its 
chief personages, and reaches its height without a single 
break in the consecutiveness, the inner necessity so to 
speak, in the development of these relations. Sylvia’s 
discovery of Philip’s dissimulation of the truth as to 
Kinraid’s disappearance, the declaration of the breach, 
seemingly never to be filled up again between man and 
wife, and the conscience-stricken flight of the husband, 
form the necessary climax of the story. 

It is not for us to say how in our opinion the end of the 
narrative — the solution which the authoress unmistak- 
ably had from the first in view — would have been most 
appropriately brought about. It is easy enough, as I 
have already hinted, to recognise that Mrs. Gaskell, 
who in some of her stories had to contend (as Dickens 
himself had) against the obligation of compressing her 
work within definite, and definitely apportioned, limits, 
had in the present instance to make the best of the neces- 
sity of drawing out what may, in a technical as well as 
in a literal sense, be called the “return” in her argument. 
But, in any case, the freshness of her inventive powers ^ 
stood her in good stead; nor, in truth, is it so much the 
adventures of poor Philip Hepburn that are likely to 
tire an attention excited to full pitch by the moving 
climax of this story, as Sylvia’s weary home experiences. 


XXX 


“ Sylvia’s Lovers,” etc. 

Our interest shifts unavoidably from her to him; and 
the fading of the incomparable charm that had sur- 
rounded her figure is too much insisted on. A touch 
would have been enough — ^such a touch as this: 

“ ‘ A crust of bread and liberty ’ was more in accordance with 
Sylvia’s nature than plenty of creature comforts and many 
restraints.” 

Even the effect made on the reader by Hester’s solemn , 
silent personality is in some measure undone when her 
love, too, at last finds words. Kinraid’s marriage is as 
pure a piece of prose as is Molly Brunton’s — and, alto- 
gether, our interest slackens. As for Philip, however, 
the narrative moves on without any faltering. In the 
incidents which lead to Kinraid’s recognition of him in 
the face of the assailants of St. Jean d’Acre, there is 
nothing intrinsically improbable, if we remember the 
times to which they are assigned; and it was a happy 
thought to make use, for the purposes of the story, of so 
unique an exploit as that of the splendid defence, by 
which, in May, 1799, Sir Sidney Smith foiled Napoleon 
Bonapart’s far-reaching Oriental projects and practically 
brought about his return to France. Kinraid, for whose 
rapid promotion it is necessary to account, is skilfully 
also associated with Sidney Smith’s destruction of the 
French ships in Toulon harbour in December, 1793, and 
with the future “hero of Acre’s” subsequent imprison- 
ment in the Temple at Paris. Perhaps it was unneces- 
sary, in the case of a narrative already sufficiently loaded 
with such coincidences, that the shattered marine should 
on his return to England meet at Portsmouth the for- 
tunate captain whose life he had saved in Palestine. 
But the halt at St. Sepulchre (in which we easily recog- 
nise Henry de Blois’ foundation of St. Cross near Win- 
chester, that survives to this day) is greatly imagined; 


XXXI 


Introduction 

and the bedesman’s voluntary abandonment of a place 
of rest, in which for his yearning heart there is no rest, 
is finely conceived. 

The scene of the last stage of the story is therefore, like 
that of the first, Monkshaven. The reader who might 
detect some resemblance between the final situation and 
that of the close of Tennyson’s Enoch Arden, will not 
fail to remember, that the publication of the poem 
was later by a year than that of Sylvia's Lovers. I 
have already said, that, to my mind, the concluding 
scene of the story more than redeems whatever there is 
of lengthiness in the chapters that have led up to it. 
Nor should it be forgotten that without the intervening 
wanderings — like those in an Indian drama — there 
narrated, the haven could not have been reached, and 
the divine peace which passeth all understanding could 
not have descended upon who one had both suffered 
and striven. In the death-scene — one among many 
in Mrs. Gaskell’s stories, but unequalled by any other of 
them all — her power of pathos touches its height. This 
power, which subdues to its use an almost ballad-like 
refrain of the lapping waves, justifies the writer in one 
of the most beautiful unconscious plagiarisms in our 
literature. 

“ ‘Child, ’ said he once more, ‘I ha’ made thee my idol; and, if 
I could live my life o’er again, I would love my God more, and 
thee less; and then I should n’t ha’ sinned this sin against thee.” 

But there is something above pathos in the consum- 
mation reached at the close. “It ’s not in me to for- 
give,’’ poor Sylvia had said in the clouded days of their 
brief wedded life; “I sometimes .hink it ’s not in me to 
forget.’’ Almost to the last Philip’s lips murmur the 
prayer for forgiveness by the wife whom he had wronged, 
but, just before the power of speech is giving way at the 

xxxii 



t 


VIEW OF WHITBY 
From a water-colour drawing by M 



“Sylvia’s Lovers,” etc. 

coming of death, he asks on High for forgiveness on 
behalf of both her and himself — “as we forgive each 
other.” And so, from her arms, he is taken home. 

“An Italian Institution,” a paper which appeared in 
All the Year Round, on Mach 21, 1863, is one of those 
lucid expositions of social phenomena in which Mrs. 
Gaskell was second to none of the contributors to the 
journals conducted by Dickens. The Camorra, which 
in some of its milder aspects was familiar to many of us 
who visited Naples not very long after the Bourbon rule 
had come to an end, was, during that rule (if rule it 
could be called) one of the most glaring illustrations 
of its feebleness and immorality. As a historian of the 
present day expresses it, “the Camorristi and the brigands 
were protected by, and in turn protected, those whose 
duty it was to suppress them.” Any one who wishes 
to read more about the Camorra could not do better than 
turn to an admirably graphic series of sketches by the 
late Charles Grant (a very ucommon man), published 
in 1896 under the title Stories of Naples and the 
Camorra. We may hope, as of the press-gang, that 
of this other “peculiar institution,” too, the world has 
seen the last. 

A. W. W. 

August, 1906 . 


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MM .A 


SYLVIA’S LOVERS 


CHAPTEE I 

MONKSHAVEN 

On the north-eastern shores of England there is a town 
called Monkshaven, containing at the present day about 
fifteen thousand inhabitants. There were, however, but half 
the number at the end of the last century, and it was at 
that period that the events narrated in the following pages 
occurred. 

Monkshaven was a name not unknown in the history of 
England, and traditions of its having been the landing-place 
of a throneless queen were current in the town. At that 
time there had been a fortified castle on the heights above 
it, the site of which was now occupied by a deserted manor- 
house ; and at an even earlier date than the arrival of the 
queen, and coeval with the most ancient remains of the 
castle, a great monastery had stood on those cliffs, over- 
looking the vast ocean that blended with the distant sky. 
Monkshaven itself was built by the side of the Dee, just 
where the river falls into the German Ocean. The principal 
street of the town ran parallel to the stream, and smaller 
lanes branched out of this, and straggled up the sides of the 
steep hill, between which and the river the houses were pent 
in. There was a bridge across the Dee, and consequently a 
Bridge Street running at right angles to the High Street ; 
and on the south side of the stream there were a few houses 
of more pretension, around which lay gardens and fields. It 
was on this side of the town that the local aristocracy lived. 

B 


I 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

And who were the great people of this small town ? Not the 
younger branches of the county families that held hereditary 
state in their manor-houses on the wild, bleak moors, that 
shut in Monkshaven almost as effectually on the land side 
as ever the waters did on the sea- board. No ; these old 
families kept aloof from the unsavoury yet adventurous trade 
which brought wealth to generation after generation of 
certain families in Monkshaven. 

The magnates of Monkshaven were those who had the 
largest number of ships engaged in the whaling-trade. Some- 
thing like the following was the course of life with a Mbnks- 
haven lad of this class : — He was apprenticed as a sailor to 
one of the great shipowners — to his own father, possibly — 
along with twenty other boys, or, it might be, even more. 
During the summer months he and his fellow-apprentices 
made voyages to the Greenland seas, returning with their 
cargoes in the early autumn, and employing the winter 
months in watching the preparation of the oil from the 
blubber in the melting-sheds, and learning navigation from 
some quaint but experienced teacher, half schoolmaster, half 
sailor, who • seasoned his instructions by stirring narrations 
of the wild adventures of his youth. The house of the ship- 
owner to whom he was apprenticed was his home, and that 
of his companions, during the idle season between October 
and March. The domestic position of these boys varied 
according to the premium paid ; some took rank with the 
sons of the family, others were considered as little better 
than servants. Yet, once on board, an equality prevailed, in 
which, if any claimed superiority, it was the bravest and 
brightest. After a certain number of voyages the Monks- 
haven lad would rise by degrees to be captain, and as such 
would have a share in the venture ; all these profits, as well 
as all his savings, would go towards building a whaling 
vessel of his own, if he was not so fortunate as to be the child 
of a shipowner. At the time of which I write, there was but 
little division of labour in the Monkshaven whale-fishery. 
The same man might be the owner of six or seven ships, any 

2 


Monkshaven 

one of which he himself was fitted hy education and experi- 
ence to command ; the master of a score of apprentices, each 
of whom paid a pretty sufficient premium; and the pro- 
prietor of the melting-sheds into which his cargoes of blubber 
and whalebone were conveyed to be fitted for sale. It was 
no wonder that large fortunes were acquired by these ship- 
owners, nor that their houses on the south side of the river 
Dee were stately mansions, full of handsome and substantial 
furniture. It was also not surprising that the whole town 
had an amphibious appearance, to a degree unusual even in 
a seaport. Every one depended on the whale-fishery, and 
almost every male inhabitant had been, or hoped to be, 
a sailor. Down by the river the smell was almost intoler- 
able to any but Monkshaven people during certain seasons 
of the year; but on these unsavoury “ staithes ” the old men 
and children lounged for hours, almost as if they revelled in 
the odours of train-oil. 

This is, perhaps, enough of a description of the town 
itself. I have said that the country for miles all around was 
moorland ; high above the level of the sea towered the purple 
crags, whose summits were crowned with greensward that 
stole down the sides of the scaur a little way in grassy veins. 
Here and there a brook forced its way from the heights down 
to the sea, making its channel into a valley more or less 
broad in long process of time. And in the moorland hollows, 
as in these valleys, trees and underwood grew and flourished ; 
so that, while on the bare swells of the high land you shivered 
at the waste desolation of the scenery, when you dropped 
into these wooded “ bottoms ” you were charmed with the 
nestling shelter which they gave. But above and around 
these rare and fertile vales there were moors for many a 
mile, here and there bleak enough, with the red freestone 
cropping out above the scanty herbage ; then, perhaps, there 
was a brown tract of peat and bog, uncertain footing for the 
pedestrian who tried to make a short cut to his destination ; 
then, on the higher sandy soil, there was the purple ling, or 
commonest species of heather, growing in beautiful wild 

3 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

luxuriance. Tufts of fine, elastic grass were occasionally to 
be found, on which the little black-faced sheep browsed ; but 
either the scanty food or their goat-like agility kept them in 
a lean condition that did not promise much for the butcher ; 
nor yet was their wool of a quality fine enough to make them 
profitable in that way to their owners. In such districts there 
is little population at the present day ; there was much less 
in the last century, before agriculture was sufi&ciently scientific 
to have a chance of contending with such natural disqualifica- 
tions as the moors presented, and when there were no facilities 
of railroads to bring sportsmen from a distance to enjoy the 
shooting season, and make an annual demand for accommo- 
dation. 

There were old stone halls in the valleys ; there were bare 
farm-houses to be seen on the moors at long distances apart, 
with small stacks of coarse poor hay, and almost larger stacks 
of turf for winter fuel in their farm-yards. The cattle in the 
pasture fields belonging to these farms looked half-starved ; 
but somehow there was an odd, intelligent expression in their 
faces, as well as in those of the black-visaged sheep, which is 
seldom seen in the placidly stupid countenances of well-fed 
animals. All the fences were turf banks, with loose stones 
piled into walls on the top of these. 

There was comparative fertility and luxuriance down below 
in the rare green dales. The narrow meadows stretching 
along the brookside seemed as though the cows could really 
satisfy their hunger in the deep rich grass ; whereas on the 
higher lands the scanty herbage was hardly worth the fatigue 
of moving about in search of it. Even in these “ bottoms ” 
the piping sea-winds, following the current of the stream, 
stunted and cut low any trees ; but still there was rich, thick 
underwood, tangled and tied together with brambles, and 
briar-rose, and honeysuckle ; and, if the farmer in these com- 
paratively happy valleys had had wife or daughter who cared 
for gardening, many a flower would have grown on the 
western or southern side of the rough stone house. But ^at 
that time gardening was not a popular art in any part of 

4 


Monkshaven 

England ; in the north it is not yet. Noblemen and gentle- 
men may have beautiful gardens; but farmers and day- 
labourers care little for them north of the Trent, which is all 
I can answer for. A few “ berry ” bushes, a black-currant 
tree or two (the leaves to be used in heightening the flavour 
of tea, the fruit as medicinal for colds and sore throats), a 
potato- ground (and this was not so common at the close of 
the last century as it is now), a cabbage bed, a bush of sage, 
and balm, and thyme, and marjoram, with possibly a rose 
tree, and “ old man ” growing in the midst ; a‘ little plot of 
small, strong, coarse onions, and perhaps some marigolds, 
the petals of which flavoured the salt-beef broth : such plants 
made up a well-furnished garden to a farm-house at the 
time and place to which my story belongs. But for twenty 
miles inland there was no forgetting the sea, nor the sea- 
trade; refuse shell-fish, sea- weed, the offal of the melting- 
houses, were the staple manure of the district ; great ghastly 
whale- jaws, bleached bare and white, were the arches over 
the gate-posts to many a field or moorland stretch. Out of 
every family of several sons, however agricultural their 
position might be, one had gone to sea, and the mother 
looked wistfully seaward at the changes of the keen piping 
moorland winds. The holiday rambles were to the coast ; 
no one cared to go inland to see aught, unless indeed it 
might be to the great annual horse-fairs, held where the 
dreary land broke into habitation and cultivation. 

Somehow in this country sea-thoughts followed the thinker 
far inland ; whereas in most other parts of the island, at five 
miles from the ocean, he has all but forgotten the existence 
of such an element as salt water. The great Greenland trade 
of the coasting-towns was the main and primary cause of 
this, no doubt. But there was also a dread and an irritation 
in every one’s mind, at the time of which I write, in con- 
nection with the neighbouring sea. 

Since the termination of the American war, there had been 
nothing to call for any unusual energy in manning the navy ; 
and the grants required by Government for this purpose 

5 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

diminished with every year of peace. In 1792 this grant 
touched its minimum for many years. In 1793 the proceed- 
ings of the French had set Europe on fire, and the English 
were raging with anti-Gallican excitement, fomented into 
action by every expedient of the Crown and its Ministers. 
We had our ships ; but where were our men ? The Admiralty 
had, however, a ready remedy at hand, with ample precedent 
for its use, and with common (if not statute) law to sanction 
its application. They issued “ press-warrants,” calling upon 
the civil power throughout the country to support their officers 
in the discharge of their duty. The sea-coast was divided 
into districts, under the charge of a captain in the navy, who 
again delegated sub-districts to lieutenants ; and in this 
manner all homeward-bound vessels were watched and 
waited for, all ports were under supervision ; and in a day, 
if need were, a large number of men could be added to the 
forces of his Majesty’s navy. But if the Admiralty became 
urgent in their demands, they were also willing to be un- 
scrupulous. Landsmen, if able-bodied, might soon be trained 
into good sailors ; and, once in the hold of the tender, which 
always awaited the success of the operations of the press- 
gang, it was difficult for such prisoners to bring evidence of 
the nature of their former occupations, especially when none 
had leisure to listen to such evidence, or were willing to 
believe it if they did listen, or would act upon it for the 
release of the captive, if they had by possibility both listened 
and believed. Men were kidnapped, literally disappeared, 
and nothing was ever heard of them again. The street of a 
busy town was not safe from such press-gang captures, as 
Lord Thurlow could have told, after a certain walk he took 
about this time on Tower Hill, when he, the Attorney-General 
of England, was impressed ; and the Admiralty had its own 
peculiar ways of getting rid of tiresome besiegers and 
petitioners. Nor yet were lonely inland dwellers more 
secure ; many a rustic went to a statute-fair or “ mop,” and 
never came home to tell of his hiring ; many a stout young 
farmer vanished from his place by the hearth of his father, 

6 


Monkshaven 

and was no more heard of by mother or lover : so great was 
the press for men to serve in the navy during the early years 
of the war with France, and after every great naval victory of 
that war. 

The servants of the Admiralty lay in wait for all merchant- 
men and traders ; there were many instances of vessels re- 
turning home after long absence, and laden with rich cargo, 
being boarded within a day’s distance of land, and so many 
men pressed and carried off, that the ship, with her cargo, 
became unmanageable from the loss of her crew, drifted out 
again into the wild, wide ocean, and was sometimes found in 
the helpless guidance of one or two infirm or ignorant sailors ; 
sometimes such vessels were never heard of more. The men 
thus pressed were taken from the near grasp of parents or 
wives, and were often deprived of the hard earnings of years, 
which remained in the hands of the masters of the merchant- 
man in which they had served, subject to all the chances of 
honesty or dishonesty, life or death. Now all this tyranny 
(for I can use no other word) is marvellous to us ; we cannot 
imagine how it is that a nation submitted to it for so long, 
even under any warlike enthusiasm, any panic of invasion, any 
amount of loyal subservience to the governing powers. When 
we read of the military being called in to assist the civil power 
in backing up the press-gang, of parties of soldiers patrolling 
the streets, and sentries with screwed bayonets placed at 
every door while the press-gang entered and searched each 
hole and comer of the dwelling ; when we hear of churches 
being surrounded during divine service by troops, while the 
press-gang stood ready at the door to seize men as they came 
out from attending public worship, and take these instances 
as merely types of what was constantly going on in different 
forms — we do not wonder at Lord Mayors, and other civic 
authorities in large towns, complaining that a stop was put 
to business by the danger which the tradesmen and their 
servants incurred in leaving their houses and going into the 
streets, infested by press-gangs. 

Whether it was that living in closer neighbourhood to 

7 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

the metropolis — the centre of politics and news — inspired 
the inhabitants of the southern counties with a strong feeling 
of that kind of patriotism which consists in hating all other 
nations ; or whether it was that the chances of capture were 
so much greater at all the southern ports that the merchant 
sailors became inured to the danger ; or whether it was that 
serving in the navy, to those familiar with such towns as 
Portsmouth and Plymouth, had an attraction to most men 
from the dash and brilliancy of the adventurous employment 
— it is certain that the southerners took the oppression of 
press -warrants more submissively than the wild north-eastern 
people. For with them the chances of profit beyond their 
wages in the whaling or Greenland trade extended to the 
lowest description of sailor. He might rise by daring and 
saving to be a shipowner himself. Numbers around him 
had done so ; and this very fact made the distinction between 
class and class less apparent ; and the common ventures and 
dangers, the universal interest felt in one pursuit, bound the 
inhabitants of that line of coast together with a strong tie, 
the severance of which by any violent, extraneous measure, 
gave rise to passionate anger and thirst for vengeance. A 
Yorkshireman once said to me, “ My county folk are all 
alike. Their first thought is how to resist. Why ! I myself, 
if I hear a man say it is a fine day, catch myself trying to 
find out that it is no such thing. It is so in thought ; it is 
so in word ; it is so in deed.” 

So you may imagine the press-gang had no easy time of 
it on the Yorkshire coast. In other places they inspired 
fear, but here rage and hatred. The Lord Mayor of York 
was warned on 20th January 1797, by an anonymous letter, 
that “ if those men were not sent from the city on or before 
the following Tuesday, his lordship’s own dwelling, and the 
Mansion-House also, should be burned to the ground.” 

Perhaps something of the ill-feeling that prevailed on the 
subject was owing to the fact which I have noticed in other 
places similarly situated. Where the landed possessions of 
gentlemen of ancient family but limited income surround a 

8 


Monkshaven 

centre of any kind of profitable trade or manufacture, there 
is a sort of latent ill-will on the part of the squires to the 
tradesman, be he manufacturer, merchant, or shipowner, in 
whose hands is held a power of money-making, which no 
hereditary pride, or gentlemanly love of doing nothing, pre- 
vents him from using. This ill-will, to be sure, is mostly of 
a negative kind ; its most common form of manifestation is 
in absence of speech or action, a sort of torpid and genteel 
ignoring all unpleasant neighbours; but really the whale- 
fisheries of Monkshaven had become so impertinently and 
obtrusively prosperous of late years — at the time of which I 
write, the Monkshaven shipowners were growing so wealthy 
and consequential, that the squires, who hved at home at 
ease in the old stone manor-houses scattered up and down 
the surrounding moorland, felt that the check upon the 
Monkshaven trade likely to be inflicted by the press-gang 
was wisely ordained by the higher powers (how high they 
placed these powers I will not venture to say) to prevent 
overhaste in getting rich, which was a scriptural fault ; and 
they also thought that they were only doing their duty in 
backing up the Admiralty warrants by all the civil power at 
their disposal, whenever they were called upon, and when- 
ever they could do so without taking too much trouble in 
affairs which did not after all much concern themselves. 

There was just another motive in the minds of some 
provident parents of many daughters. The captains and 
lieutenants employed on this service were mostly agreeable 
bachelors, brought up to a genteel profession; at the least 
they were very pleasant visitors, when they had a day to 
spare ; who knew what might come of it ? 

Indeed, these brave officers were not unpopular in 
Monkshaven itself, except at the time when they were 
brought into actual collision with the people. They had 
the frank manners of their profession ; they were known to 
have served in those engagements, the very narrative of 
which at this day will warm the heart of a Quaker ; and they 
themselves did not come prominently forward in the dirty 

9 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

work which, nevertheless, was permitted and quietly sanc- 
tioned by them. So, while few Monkshaven people passed 
the low public-house over which the navy blue-flag streamed, 
as a sign that it was the rendezvous of the press-gang, with- 
out spitting towards it in sign of abhorrence, yet, perhaps, 
the very same persons would give some rough token of 
respect to Lieutenant Atkinson if they met him in High 
Street. Touching their hats was an unknown gesture in 
those parts, but they would move their heads in a droll, 
familiar kind of way, neither a wag nor a nod, but meant all 
the same to imply friendly regard. The shipowners, too, 
invited him to an occasional dinner or supper, all the time 
looking forward to the chances of his turning out an active 
enemy, and not by any means inclined to give him “ the run 
of the house,” however many unmarried daughters might 
grace their table. Still, as he could tell a rattling story, 
drink hard, and was seldom too • busy to come at a short 
notice, he got on better than any one could have expected 
with the Monkshaven folk. And the principal share of the 
odium of his business fell on his subordinates, who were one 
and all regarded in the light of mean kidnappers and spies — 

“ varmint,” as the common people esteemed them : and as 
such they were ready at the first provocation to hunt and to 
worry them, but little cared the press-gang for this. What- 
ever else they were, they were brave and daring. They had 
law to back them, therefore their business was lawful. They 
were serving their king and country. They were using all 
their faculties, and that is always pleasant. There was 
plenty of scope for the glory and triumph of outwitting; 
plenty of adventure in their life. It was a lawful and loyal 
employment, requiring sense, readiness, courage ; and besides 
it called out that strange love of the chase inherent in every 
man. Fourteen or fifteen miles at sea lay the Aurora, good 
man-of-war ; and to her were conveyed the living cargoes of 
several tenders, which were stationed at likely places along 
the sea-coast. One, the Lively Lady, might be seen from the 
cliffs above Monkshaven, not so far away, but hidden by the 

10 


Home from Greenland 

angle of the high lands from the constant sight of the towns- 
people ; and there was always the Eandyvow-house (as the 
public-house with the navy blue-flag was called thereabouts) 
for the crew of the Lively Lady to lounge about, and there to 
offer drink to unwary passers-by. At present this was all 
that the press-gang had done at Monkshaven. 


CHAPTER II 

HOME FEOM GREENLAND 

One hot day, early in October of the year 1796, two girls 
set off from their country homes to Monkshaven to sell 
their butter and eggs, for they were both farmers’ daughters, 
though rather in different ‘circumstances ; for Molly Corney 
was one of a large family of children, and had to rough it 
accordingly; Sylvia Robson was an only child, and was 
much made of, in more people’s estimation than Mary’s, by 
her elderly parents. They had each purchases to make after 
their sales were effected, as sales of butter and eggs were 
effected in those days by the market-women sitting on the 
steps of the great old, mutilated cross till a certain hour in 
the afternoon : after which, if all their goods were not dis- 
posed of, they took them unwillingly to the shops and sold 
them at a lower price. But good housewives did not despise 
coming themselves to the Butter Gross, and, smelling and 
depreciating the articles they wanted, kept up a perpetual 
struggle of words, trying, often in vain, to beat down prices. 
A housekeeper of the last century would have thought that 
she did not know her business, if she had not gone through 
this preliminary process ; and the farmers’ wives and 
daughters treated it all as a matter of course, replying with 
a good deal of independent humour to the customer, who, 
once having discovered where good butter and fresh eggs 


II 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

were to be sold, canie time after time to depreciate the 
articles she always ended in taking. There was leisure for 
all this kind of work in those days. 

Molly had tied a knot on her pink- spotted handkerchief 
for each of the various purchases she had to make — dull but 
important articles needed for the week’s consumption at 
home ; if she forgot any one of them, she knew she was sure 
of a good “ rating ” from her mother. The number of them 
made her pocket-handkerchief look like one of the nine-tails of 
a “ cat ; ” but not a single thing was for herself, nor, indeed, 
for any one individual of her numerous family. There was 
neither much thought nor much money to spend for any but 
collective wants in the Corney family. 

It was different with Sylvia. She was going to choose 
her first cloak : not to have an old one of her mother’s, that 
had gone down through two sisters, dyed for the fourth time 
(and Molly would have been glad had even this chance been 
hers), but to buy a bran-new duffle cloak all for herself, with 
not even an elder authority to curb her as to price, only 
Molly to give her admiring counsel, and as much sympathy 
as was consistent with a little patient envy of Sylvia’s 
happier circumstances. Every now and then they wandered 
off from the one grand subject of thought ; but Sylvia, with 
unconscious art, soon brought the conversation round to the 
fresh consideration of the respective merits of grey and 
scarlet. These girls were walking bare-foot and carrying 
their shoes and stockings in their hands during the first part 
of their way ; but as they were drawing near Monkshaven 
they stopped, and turned aside along a foot-path that led 
from the main-road down to the banks of the Dee. There 
were great stones in the river about here, round which the 
waters gathered and eddied and formed deep pools. Molly 
sate down on the grassy bank to wash her feet ; but Sylvia, 
more active (or perhaps lighter-hearted with the notion of 
the cloak in the distance), placed her basket on a gravelly bit 
of shore, and, giving a long spring, seated herself on a stone 
almost in the middle of the stream. Then she began dipping 

12 


Home from Greenland 

her little rosy toes in the cold rushing water and whisking 
them out with childish glee. 

“ Be quiet, wi’ the’, Sylvia ! Thou’st splashing me all 
ower, and my feyther’U noane be so keen o’ giving me a 
new cloak as thine is, seemingly.” 

Sylvia was quiet, not to say penitent, in a moment. She 
drew up her feet instantly ; and, as if to take herself out of 
temptation, she turned away from Molly to that side of her 
stony seat on which the current ran shallow, and broken 
by pebbles. But once disturbed in her play, her thoughts 
reverted to the great subject of the cloak. She was now as 
still as a minute before she had been full of frolic and 
gambolling life. She had tucked herself up on the stone, as 
if it had been a cushion, and she a little sultana. 

Molly was deliberately washing her feet and drawing on 
her stockings, when she heard a sudden sigh, and her com- 
panion turned round so as to face her, and said — 

“ I wish mother hadn’t spoken up for t’ grey.” 

“ Why, Sylvia, thou wert saying as we topped t’ brow, as 
she did nought but bid thee think twice afore settling on 
scarlet.” 

“ Ay ! but mother’s words are scarce, and weigh heavy. 
Feyther’s liker me, and we talk a deal o’ rubble ; but mother’s 
words are hker to hewn stone. She puts a deal o’ meaning 
in ’em. And then,” said Sylvia, as if she was put out by the 
suggestion, “ she bid me ask cousin Philip for his opinion. I 
hate a man as has getten an opinion on such-like things.” 

“ Well ! we shall niver get to Monkshaven this day, either 
for to sell our eggs and stuff, or to buy thy cloak, if we’re 
sittin’ here much longer. T’ sun’s for slanting low, so come 
along, lass, and let’s be going.” 

“ But if I put on my stockings and shoon here, and jump 
back into yon wet gravel, I’se not be fit to be seen,” said 
Sylvia, in a pathetic tone of bewilderment that was funnily 
childlike. She stood up, her bare feet curved round the 
curving surface of the stone, her slight figure balancing as if 
in act to spring. 


13 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Thou knows thou’ll have just to jump back barefoot, and 
wash tby feet afresh, without making all that ado ; thou 
sbouldst ha’ done it at first, like me, and all other sensible 
folk. But thou’st gotten no gumption.” 

Molly’s mouth was stopped by Sylvia’s hand. She was 
already on the river bank by her friend’s side. 

Now dunnot lecture me ; I’m none for a sermon hung 
on every peg o’ words. I’m going to have a new cloak, lass, 
and I cannot heed thee if thou dost lecture. Thou shall have 
all the gumption, and I’ll have my cloak.” 

It may be doubted whether Molly thought this an equal 
division. 

Each girl wore tightly -fitting stockings, knit by her own 
hands, of the blue worsted common in that country; they 
had on neat, high-heeled, black leather shoes, coming well 
over the instep, and fastened as well as ornamented with 
bright steel buckles. They did not walk so lightly and freely 
now as they did before they were shod, but their steps were 
still springy with the buoyancy of early youth ; for neither 
of them was twenty, indeed I believe Sylvia was not more 
than seventeen at this time. 

They clambered up the steep, grassy path, with brambles 
catching at their kilted petticoats, through the copse- wood, 
till they regained the high road ; and then they “ settled 
themselves,” as they called it; that is to say, they took off 
their black felt hats, and tied up their clustering hair afresh ; 
they shook off every speck of wayside dust ; straightened the 
little shawls (or large neck- kerchiefs, call them which you 
will) that were spread over their shoulders, pinned below 
the throat, and confined at the waist by their apron-strings ; 
and then, putting on their hats again, and picking up their 
baskets, they prepared to walk decorously into the town of 
Monkshaven. 

The next turn of the road showed them the red-peaked 
roofs of the closely-packed houses lying almost directly below 
the hill on which they were. The full autumn sun brought 
out the ruddy colour of the tiled gables, and deepened the 

14 


Home from Greenland 

shadows in the narrow streets. The narrow harbour at the 
mouth of the river was crowded with small vessels of all 
descriptions, making an intricate forest of masts. Beyond 
lay the sea, like a flat pavement of sapphire, scarcely a ripple 
varying its sunny surface, that stretched out leagues away 
till it blended with the softened azure of the sky. On this 
blue, trackless water floated scores of white-sailed fishing 
boats, apparently motionless, unless you measured their pro- 
gress by some land-mark ; but, still, and silent, and distant 
as they seemed, the consciousness that there were men on 
board, each going forth into the great deep, added unspeak- 
ably to the interest felt in watching them. Close to the bar 
of the river Dee a larger vessel lay to. Sylvia, who had 
only recently come into the neighbourhood, looked at this 
with the same quiet interest as she did at all the others ; 
but Molly, as soon as her eye caught the build of it, cried 
out aloud — 

“ She’s a whaler ! she’s a whaler home from t’ Greenland 
seas ! T’ first this season ! God bless her ! ” and she turned 
round and shook both Sylvia’s hands, in the fulness of her 
excitement. Sylvia’s colour rose, and her eyes sparkled out 
of sympathy. 

“Is ta sure ? ” she asked, breathless in her turn ; for, 
though she did not know by the aspect of the different ships 
on what trade they were bound, yet she was well aware ot 
the paramount interest attached to whaling vessels. 

“ Three o’clock ! and it’s not high water till five ! ” said 
Molly. “ If we’re sharp we can sell our eggs, and be down 
to the staithes before she comes into port. Be sharp, lass ! ” 

And down the steep, long hill they went at a pace that 
was almost a run. A run they dared not make it ; and, as 
it was, the rate at which they walked would have caused 
destruction among eggs less carefully packed. When the 
descent was ended, there was yet the long, narrow street 
before them, bending and swerving from the straight line, as 
it followed the course of the river. The girls felt as if they 
should never come to the market-place, which was situated 

15 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

at the crossing of Bridge Street and High Street. There the 
old stone cross was raised by the monks long ago ; now 
worn and mutilated, no one esteemed it as a holy symbol, 
but only as the Butter Cross, where market-women clustered 
on Wednesday, and whence the town-crier made all his pro- 
clamations of household sales, things lost or found, beginning 
with “ O yes ! O yes ! O yes ! ” and ending with “ God 
bless the king and the lord of this manor,” and a very brisk 
“ Amen,” before he went on his way and took off the livery- 
coat, the colours of which marked him as a servant of 
the Bumabys, the family who held manorial rights over 
Monkshaven. 

Of course the much frequented space surrounding the 
Butter Cross was the favourite centre for shops ; and on this 
day, a fine market-day, just when good housewives begin to 
look over their winter store of blankets and flannels, and 
discover their needs betimes, these shops ought to have had 
plenty of customers. But they were empty and of even 
quieter aspect than their every-day wont. The three-legged 
creepie-stools that were hired out at a penny an hour to such 
market women as came too late to find room on the steps 
were unoccupied ; knocked over here and there, as if people 
had passed by in haste. 

Molly took in all at a glance, and interpreted the signs, 
•though she had no time to explain their meaning, and her 
consequent course of action, to Sylvia, but darted into a 
corner shop. 

“ T’ whalers is coming home ! There’s one lying outside 
t’ bar ! ” 

This was put in the form of an assertion ; but the tone 
was that of eager cross-questioning. 

“ Ay ! ” said a lame man, mending fishing-nets behind 
a rough deal counter. “ She’s come back airly, and she’s 
brought good news o’ t’ others, as I’ve heerd say. Time 
was I should ha’ been on th’ staithes throwing up my cap 
wit’ t’ best on ’em ; but now it pleases t’ Lord to keep me 
at home, and set me to mind other folks’ gear. See thee, 

i6 


Home from Greenland 

wench, there’s a vast o’ folk ha’ left their skeps o’ things wi’ 
me while they’re away down to t’ quay side. Leave me 
your eggs and be off wi’ ye for t’ see t’ fun, for mebbe ye’ll 
live to be palsied yet, and then ye’ll be fretting ower spilt 
milk, and that ye didn’t tak’ all chances when ye was young. 
Ay, well ! they’re out o’ bearin’ o’ my moralities ; I’d better 
find a lamiter like mysen to preach to, for it’s not iverybody 
has t’ luck t’ clargy has of saying their say out whether folks 
likes it or not.” 

He put the baskets carefully away, with much of such 
talk as this addressed to himself while he did so. Then he 
sighed once or twice ; and then he took the better course and 
began to sing over his tarry work. 

Molly and Sylvia were far along the staithes by the time 
he got to this point of cheerfulness. They ran on, regardless 
of stitches and pains in the side ; on along the river bank to 
where the concourse of people was gathered. There was 
no great length of way between the Butter Cross and the 
harbour ; in five minutes the breathless girls were close 
together in the best place they could get for seeing, on the 
outside of the crowd ; and in as short a time longer they 
were pressed inwards, by fresh arrivals, into the very midst 
of the throng. All eyes were directed to the ship, beating 
her anchor just outside the bar, not a quarter of a mile away. 
The custom-house officer was just gone aboard of her to 
receive the captain’s report of his cargo, and make due 
examination. The men who had taken him out in his boat 
were rowing back to the shore, and brought small fragments 
of news when they landed a little distance from the crowd, 
which moved as one man to hear what was to be told. 
Sylvia took a hard grasp of the hand of the older and more 
experienced Molly, and hstened open-mouthed to the answers 
she was extracting from a gruff old sailor she happened to 
find near her. 

“ What ship is she ? ” 

“ T’ Resolution of Monkshaven ! ” said he indignantly, as 
if any goose might have known that. 

17 


c 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ An’ a good Resolution, and a blessed ship she’s been 
to me,” piped out an old woman, close at Mary’s elbow. 
“ She’s brought me home my ae’ lad — for he shouted to 
yon boatman to bid him tell me he was well. ‘ Tell Peggy 
Christison,’ says he (my name is Margaret Christison) — ‘ tell 
Peggy Christison as her son Hezekiah is come back safe and 
sound.’ The Lord’s name be praised ! An’ me a widow as 
never thought to see my lad again ! ” 

It seemed as if everybody relied on every one else’s 
sympathy in that hour of great joy. 

“ I ax pardon, but if you’d gie me just a bit of elbow- 
room for a minute like, I’d hold my babby up, so that he 
might see daddy’s ship, and, happen, my master might see 
him. He’s four months old last Tuesday se’nnight, and his 
feyther’s never clapt eyne on him yet, and he wi’ a tooth 
through, an’ another just breaking, bless him ! ” 

One or two of the better end of the Monkshaven in- . 
habitants stood a little before Molly and Sylvia ; and, as they 
moved in compliance with the young mother’s request, they 
overheard some of the information these ship-owners had 
received from the boatmen. 

“ Haynes says they’ll send the manifest of the cargo 
ashore in twenty minutes, as soon as Pishburn has looked 
over the casks. Only eight whales, according to what he 
says.” 

“ No one can tell,” said the other, “ till the manifest 
comes to hand.” 

“ I’m afraid he’s right. But he brings a good report of 
the Good Fortune. She’s off St. Abb’s Head, with something 
like fifteen whales to her share.” 

“ We shall see how much is true, when she comes in.” 

“That’ll be by the afternoon-tide to-morrow.” 

“ That’s my cousin’s ship,” said Molly to Sylvia. “ He’s 
specksioneer on board the Good Fortune.” 

An old man touched her as she spoke — 

“I humbly make my manners, missus, but I’m stone 
blind ; my lad’s aboard yon vessel outside t’ bar ; and my old 

i8 


Home from Greenland 

woman is bed-fast. Will she be long, think ye, in making t’ 
harbour ? Because, if so be as she were, I’d just make my 
way back, and speak a word or two to my missus, who’ll be 
boiling o’er into some mak o’ mischief now she knows he’s 
so near. May I be so bold as to ax if t’ Crooked Negro is 
covered yet ? ” 

Molly stood on tip-toe to try and see the black stone thus 
named; but Sylvia, stooping and peeping through the glimpses 
afforded between the arms of the moving people, saw it first, 
and told the blind old man it was still above water. 

“ A watched pot,” said he, “ ne’er boils, I reckon. It’s 
ta’en a vast o’ watter t’ cover that stone to-day. Anyhow, 
I’ll have time to go home and rate my missus for worritin’ 
hersen, as I’ll be bound she’s done, for all as I hade her not, 
but to keep easy and content.” 

“ We’d better be off too,” said Molly, as an opening 
was made through the press to let out the groping old 
man. “ Eggs and butter is yet to sell, and tha’ cloak to be 
bought.” 

“ Well, I suppose we had ! ” said Sylvia rather regretfully ; 
for, though all the way into Monkshaven her head had been 
full of the purchase of this cloak, yet she was of that 
impressible nature that takes the tone of feeling from those 
surrounding ; and, though she knew no one on board the 
Resolution, she was just as anxious for the moment to see her 
come into harbour as any one in the crowd who had a dear 
relation on board. So she turned reluctantly to follow the 
more prudent Molly along the quay back to the Butter 
Cross. 

It was a pretty scene, though it was too familiar to the 
eyes of all who then saw it for them to notice its heauty. 
The sun was low enough in the west to turn the mist that 
filled the distant valley of the river into golden haze. Above, 
on either bank of the Dee, there lay the moorland heights 
swelling one behind the other ; the nearer, russet brown with 
the tints of the fading bracken ; the more distant, grey and 
dim against the rich, autumnal sky. The red and fluted tiles 

19 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

of the gabled houses rose in crowded irregularity on one 
side of the river, while the newer suburb was built in more 
orderly and less picturesque fashion on the opposite cliff. 
The river itself was swelling and chafing with the in-coming 
tide till its vexed waters rushed over the very feet of the 
watching crowd on the staithes, as the great sea-waves 
encroached more and more every minute. The quay-side 
was unsavourily ornamented with glittering fish-scales, for 
the hauls of fish were cleansed in the open air, and no 
sanitary arrangements existed for sweeping away any of the 
relics of this operation. 

The fresh, salt breeze was bringing up the lashing, leaping 
tide from the blue sea beyond the bar. Behind the return- 
ing girls there rocked the white-sailed ship, as if she were 
all alive with eagerness for her anchors to be heaved. 

How impatient her crew of beating hearts were for that 
moment, how those on land sickened at the suspense, may 
be imagined, when you remember that for six long summer 
months those sailors had been as if dead from all news of 
those they loved ; shut up in terrible, dreary, Arctic seas from 
the hungry sight of sweethearts and friends, wives and 
mothers. No one knew what might have happened. The 
crowd on shore grew silent and solemn before the dread of 
the possible news of death that might toll in upon their 
hearts with this up-rushing tide. The whalers went out into 
the Greenland seas full of strong, hopeful men ; but the 
whalers never returned as they sailed forth. On land there 
are deaths among two or three hundred men to be mourned 
over in every half-year’s space of time. Whose bones had 
been left to blacken on the grey and terrible icebergs ? Who 
lay still until the sea should give up its dead ? Who were 
those who should come back to Monkshaven never, no, never 
more ? 

Many a heart swelled with passionate, unspoken fear, as 
the first whaler lay off the bar on her return voyage. 

Molly and Sylvia had left . the crowd in this hushed 
suspense. But fifty yards along the staithe they passed five 

20 


Home from Greenland 

or six girls with flushed faces and careless attire, who had 
mounted a pile of timber, placed there to season for ship- 
building, from which, as from the steps of a ladder or stair- 
case, they could command the harbour. They were wild 
and free in their gestures, and held each other by the hand, 
and swayed from side to side, stamping their feet in time, as 
they sang — 

“ Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, 

Weel may the keel row that my laddie’s in ! ” 

“ What for are ye going off, now ? ” they called out to 
our two girls. “ She’ll be in in ten minutes ! ” and without 
waiting for the answer which never came, they resumed their 
song. 

Old sailors stood about in little groups, too proud to show 
their interest in the adventures they could no longer share, 
but quite unable to keep up any semblance of talk on 
indifferent subjects. 

The town seemed very quiet and deserted as Molly and 
Sylvia entered the dark, irregular Bridge Street, and the 
market-place was as empty of people as before. But the 
skeps and baskets and three-legged stools were all cleared 
away. 

“ Market’s over for to-day,” said Molly Corney, in dis- 
appointed surprise. “ We mun make the best on’t, and sell 
to t’ huxters, and a hard bargain they’ll be for driving. I 
doubt mother’ll be vexed.” 

She and Sylvia went to the corner shop to reclaim their 
baskets. The man had his joke at them for their delay. 

“ Ay, ay ! lasses as has sweethearts a- coming home don’t 
care much what price they get for butter and eggs ! I dare 
say, now, there’s some ’un in yon ship that ’ud give as much 
as a shilling a pound for this butter, if he only knowed who 
churned it ! ” This was to Sylvia, as he handed her back 
her property. 

The fancy-free Sylvia reddened, pouted, tossed back her 
head, and hardly deigned a farewell word of thanks or civility 

21 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

to the lame man ; she was at an age to be affronted by any 
jokes on such a subject. Molly took the joke without dis- 
claimer and without offence. She rather liked the unfounded 
idea of her having a sweetheart, and was rather surprised to 
think how devoid of foundation the notion was. If she could 
have a new cloak as Sylvia was going to have, then, indeed, 
there might be a chance ! Until some such good luck, it 
was as well to laugh and blush as if the surmise of her 
having a lover was not very far from the truth, and so she 
replied in something of the same strain as the lame net- 
maker to his joke about the butter. 

“ He’ll need it all, and more too, to grease his tongue, if 
iver he reckons to win me for his wife ! ” 

When they were out of the shop, Sylvia said, in a coaxing 
tone — 

“ Molly, who is it ? Whose tongue ’ll need greasing ? 
Just tell me, and I’ll never tell I ” 

She was so much in earnest that Molly was perplexed. 
She did not quite like saying that she had alluded to no one 
in particular, only to a possible sweetheart, so she began to 
think what young man had made the most civil speeches to 
her in her life ; the list was not a long one to go over, for 
her father was not so well off as to make her sought after for 
her money, and her face was rather of the homeliest. But 
she suddenly remembered her cousin, the specksioneer, who 
had given her two large shells, and taken a kiss from her 
half-willing lips before he went to sea the last time. So she 
smiled a little, and then said — 

“ Well ! I dunno. It’s ill talking o’ these things afore 
one has made up one’s mind. But perhaps if Charlie 
Kinraid behaves hissen, I might be brought to listen.” 

“ Charlie Kinraid ! who’s he ? ” 

“ Yon specksioneer cousin o’ mine, as I was talking on.” 

“ And do yo’ think he cares for yo’ ? ” asked Sylvia in a 
low, tender tone, as if touching on a great mystery. 

Molly only said, “ Be quiet wi’ yo’,” and Sylvia could not 
make out whether she cut the conversation so short because 


22 


Buying a New Cloak 

she was offended, or because they had come to the shop 
where they had to sell their butter and eggs. 

“ Now, Sylvia, if thou’ll leave me thy basket. I’ll make 
as good a bargain as iver I can on ’em ; and thou can be off 
to choose this grand new cloak as is to be, afore it gets any 
darker. Where is ta going to ? ” 

“ Mother said I’d better go to Foster’s,” answered Sylvia, 
with a shade of annoyance in her face. “ Feyther said just 
anywhere.” 

“ Foster’s is t’ best place ; thou canst try anywhere after- 
wards. I’ll be at Foster’s in five minutes, for I reckon we 
mun hasten a bit now. It’ll be near five o’clock.” 

Sylvia hung her head and looked very demure as she 
walked off by herself to Foster’s shop in the market-place. 


CHAPTEE III 

BUYING A NEW CLOAK 

Foster’s shop was the shop of Monkshaven. It was kept 
by two Quaker brothers, who were now old men, and their 
father had kept it before them — probably his father before 
that. People remembered it as an old-fashioned dwelling- 
house, with a sort of supplementary shop with unglazed 
windows projecting from the lower story. These openings 
had long been filled with panes of glass that at the present 
day would be accounted very small, but which seventy years 
ago were much admired for their size. I can best make you 
understand the appearance of the place by bidding you think 
of the long openings in a butcher’s shop, and then fiU 
them up in your imagination with panes about eight inches 
by six, in a heavy wooden frame. There was one of these 
windows on each side the door-place, which was kept parti- 
ally closed through the day by a low gate about a yard high. 

23 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Half the shop was appropriated to grocery ; the other half 
to drapery, and a little mercery. The good old brothers gave 
all their known customers a kindly welcome ; shaking hands 
with many of them, and asking all after their families and 
domestic circumstances before proceeding to business. They 
would not for the world have had any sign of festivity at 
Christmas, and scrupulously kept their shop open at that 
holy festival, ready themselves to serve sooner than tax the 
consciences of any of their assistants, only nobody ever came. 
But on New Year’s Day they had a great cake, and wine, 
ready in the parlour behind the shop, of which all who came 
in to buy anything were asked to partake. Yet, though 
scrupulous in most things, it did not go against the con- 
sciences of these good brothers to purchase smuggled articles. 
There was a back way from the river side, up a covered entry, 
to the yard- door of the Fosters’, and a peculiar kind of knock 
at this door always brought out either John or Jeremiah, or 
if not them, their shopman, Philip Hepburn ; and the same 
cake and wine that the excise officer’s wife might just have 
been tasting, was brought out in the back parlour to treat 
the smuggler. There was a little locking of doors, and 
drawing of the green silk curtain that was supposed to 
shut out the shop, but really all this was done very much 
for form’s sake. Everybody in Monkshaven smuggled who 
could, and every one wore smuggled goods who could ; and 
great reliance was placed on the excise officer’s neighbourly 
feelings. 

The story went that John and Jeremiah Foster were so 
rich that they could buy up all the new town across the 
bridge. They had certainly begun to have a kind of primi- 
tive bank in connection with their shop, receiving and taking 
care of such money as people did not wish to retain in their 
houses for fear of burglars. No one asked them for interest 
on the money thus deposited, nor did they give any ; but, on 
the other hand, if any of their customers, on whose character 
they could depend, wanted a little advance, the Fosters, after 
due inquiries made, and in some cases, due security given, 

24 


Buying a New Cloak 

were not unwilling to lend a moderate sum without charging 
a penny for the use of their money. All the articles they 
sold were as good as they knew how to choose^ and for them 
they expected and obtained ready money. It was said that 
they only kept on shop for their amusement. Others averred 
that there was some plan of a marriage running in the 
brothers’ heads — a marriage between William Coulson, Mr. 
Jeremiah’s wife’s nephew (Mr. Jeremiah was a widower), 
and Hester Bose, whose mother was some kind of distant 
relation, and who served in the shop, along with William 
Coulson and Philip Hepburn. Again, this was denied by 
those who averred that Coulson was no blood relation, and 
that, if the Fosters had intended to do anything considerable 
for Hester, they would never have allowed her and her 
mother to live in such a sparing way, ekeing out their small 
income by having Coulson and Hepburn for lodgers. No ; 
John and Jeremiah would leave all their money to some 
hospital or to some charitable institution. But, of course, 
there was a reply to this ; when are there not many sides to 
an argument about a possibility concerning which no facts 
are known ? Part of the reply turned on this : the old 
gentlemen had, probably, some deep plan in their heads in 
permitting their cousin to take Coulson and Hepburn as 
lodgers, the one a kind of nephew, the other, though so 
young, the head man in the shop ; if either of them took a 
fancy to Hester, how agreeably matters could be arranged ! 

All this time Hester is patiently waiting to serve Sylvia, 
who is standing before her a little shy, a little perplexed and 
distracted by the sight of so many pretty things. 

Hester was a tall young woman, sparely yet largely 
formed, of a grave aspect, which made her look older than 
she really was. Her thick brown hair was smoothly taken 
off her broad forehead and put, in a very orderly fashion, 
under her linen cap ; her face was a little square, and her 
complexion sallow, though the texture of her skin was fine. 
Her grey eyes were very pleasant, because they looked 
at you so honestly and kindly ; her mouth was slightly 

25 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

compressed, as most have it who are in the habit of restraining 
their feehngs ; but when she spoke you did not perceive this, 
and her rare smile, slowly breaking forth, showed her white 
even teeth, and when accompanied, as it generally was, by 
a sudden uplifting of her soft eyes, it made her countenance 
very winning. She was dressed in stuff of sober colours, 
both in accordance with her own taste, and in unasked com- 
pliance with the religious customs of the Fosters ; but Hester 
herself was not a Friend. 

Sylvia, standing opposite, not looking at Hester, but 
gazing at the ribbons in the shop window, as if hardly 
conscious that any one awaited the expression of her wishes, 
was a great contrast ; ready to smile or to pout, or to show 
her feelings in any way, with a character as undeveloped 
as a child’s : affectionate, wilful, naughty, tiresome, charming, 
anything, in fact, at present that the chances of an hour 
called out. Hester thought her customer the prettiest 
creature ever seen, in the moment she had for admiration, 
before Sylvia turned round and, recalled to herself, began — 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon, miss ; I was thinking what may 
the price of yon crimson ribbon be ? ” 

Hester said nothing, but went to examine the shop-mark. 

“ Oh ! I did not mean that I wanted any, I only want 
some stuff for a cloak. Thank you, miss, but I am very 
sorry— some duffle, please.” 

Hester silently replaced the ribbon, and went in search 
of the duffle. While she was gone, Sylvia was addressed by 
the very person she most wished to avoid, and whose absence 
she had rejoiced over on first entering the shop, her cousin 
Philip Hepburn. 

He was a serious-looking young man, tall, but with a 
slight stoop in his shoulders, brought on by his occupation. 
He had thick hair, standing off from his forehead in a peculiar 
but not unpleasing manner; a long face, with a slightly 
aquiline nose, dark eyes, and a long upper lip, which gave a 
disagreeable aspect to a face that might otherwise have been 
good-looking. 


26 


Buying a New Cloak 

“Good-day, Sylvie,” he said; “what are you wanting? 
How are all at home ? Let me help you ! ” 

Sylvia pursed up her red lips, and did not look at him as 
she replied — 

“ I’m very well, and so is mother ; feyther’s got a touch 
of rheumatiz ; and there’s a young woman getting what I 
want.” 

She turned a little away from him, when she had ended 
this sentence, as if it had comprised all she could possibly 
have to say to him. But he exclaimed — 

“ You won’t know how to choose,” and, seating himself 
on the counter, he swung himself over after the fashion of 
shopmen. 

Sylvia took no notice of him, but pretended to be count- 
ing over her money. 

“ What do you want, Sylvie ? ” asked he, at last annoyed 
at her silence. 

“ I don’t like to be called ‘ Sylvie ; ’ my name is Sylvia ; 
and I’m wanting duffle for a cloak, if you must know.” 

Hester now returned, with a shop-boy helping her to 
drag along the great rolls of scarlet and grey cloth. 

“ Not that,” said Philip, kicking the red duffle with his 
foot, and speaking to the lad. “ It’s the grey you want, is 
it not, Sylvie ? ” He used the name he had had the cousin’s 
right to call her by since her childhood, without remember- 
ing her words on the subject not five minutes before ; but 
she did, and was vexed. 

“ Please, miss, it is the scarlet duffle I want ; don’t let 
him take it away.” 

Hester looked up at both their countenances, a little 
wondering what was their position with regard to each 
other; for this, then, was the beautiful little cousin about 
whom Philip had talked to her mother, as sadly spoilt and 
shamefully ignorant, a lovely little dunce, and so forth. 
Hester had pictured Sylvia Eobson, somehow, as very 
different from what she was : younger, more stupid, not 
half so bright and charming (for, though she was now both 

27 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

pouting and cross, it was evident that this was not her 
accustomed mood). Sylvia devoted her attention to the red 
cloth, pushing aside the grey. 

Philip Hepburn was vexed at his advice being slighted ; 
and yet he urged it afresh. 

“ This is a respectable, quiet-looking article, that will go 
well with any colour ; you never will be so foolish as to take 
what will mark with every drop of rain.” 

“ I’m sorry you sell such good-for-nothing things,” replied 
Sylvia, conscious of her advantage, and relaxing a little (as 
little as she possibly could) of her gravity. 

Hester came in now. 

“ He means to say that this cloth will lose its first bright- 
ness in wet or damp ; but it will always be a good article, 
and the colour will stand a deal of wear. Mr. Foster would 
not have had it in his shop else.” 

Philip did not like that even a reasonable, peace-making 
interpreter should come between him and Sylvia ; so he held 
his tongue in indignant silence. 

Hester went on — 

“ To be sure, this grey is the closer make, and would wear 
the longest.” 

“ I don’t care,” said Sylvia, still rejecting the dull grey. 
“ I like this best. Eight yards, if you please, miss.” 

“ A cloak takes nine yards, at least,” said Philip 
decisively. 

“ Mother told me eight,” said Sylvia, secretly conscious 
that her mother would have preferred the more sober colour ; 
and feeling that, as she had had her own way in that respect, 
she was bound to keep to the directions she had received 
as to the quantity. But, indeed, she would not have yielded 
to Philip in anything that she could help. 

There was a sound of children’s feet running up the street 
from the river-side, shouting with excitement. At the noise, 
Sylvia forgot her cloak and her little spirit of vexation, and 
ran to the half-door of the shop. Philip followed, because 
she went. Hester looked on with passive, kindly interest, as 

28 


Buying a New Cloak 

soon as she had completed her duty of measuring. One of 
those girls whom Sylvia had seen as she and Molly left the 
crowd on the quay, came quickly up the street. Her face, 
which was handsome enough as to feature, was whitened 
with excess of passionate emotion, her dress untidy and 
flying, her movements heavy and free. She belonged to the 
lowest class of sea-port inhabitants. As she came near, 
Sylvia saw that the tears were streaming down her cheeks, 
quite unconsciously to herself. She recognised Sylvia’s face, 
full of interest as it was, and stopped her clumsy run to 
speak to the pretty, sympathetic creature. 

“ She’s o’er t’ bar ! She’s o’er t’ bar ! I’m boun’ to tell 
mother ! ” 

She caught at Sylvia’s hand, and shook it, and went on 
breathless and gasping. 

“ Sylvia, how came you to know that girl ? ” asked 
Philip sternly. “ She’s not one for you to be shaking 
hands with. She’s known all down t’ quay-side as ‘ Newcastle 
Bess.’ ” 

“ I can’t help it,” said Sylvia, half inclined to cry at his 
manner even more than his words. “ When folk are glad, I 
can’t help being glad too, and I just put out my hand, and 
she put out hers. To think o’ yon ship come in at last ! And 
if yo’d been down seeing all t’ folk looking and looking their 
eyes out, as if they feared they should die afore she came in 
and brought home the lads they loved, yo’d ha’ shaken hands 
wi’ that lass too, and no great harm done. I never set eyne 
upon her till half-an- hour ago on th’ staithes, and maybe I’ll 
niver see her again.” 

Hester was still behind the counter, but had moved so as 
to be near the window ; so she heard what they were saying, 
and now put in her word : 

“ She can’t be altogether bad ; for she thought o’ telling 
her mother first thing, according to what she said.” 

Sylvia gave Hester a quick, grateful look. But Hester 
had resumed her gaze out of the window, and did not see the 
glance. 


29 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

And now Molly Corney joined them, hastily bursting into 
the shop. 

“ Hech ! ” said she. “ Hearken ! how they’re crying and 
shouting down on t’ quay. T’ gang’s among ’em like t’ day 
of judgment. Hark ! ” 

No one spoke, no one breathed ; I had almost said, no heart 
beat for listening. Not long ; in an instant there rose the 
sharp, simultaneous cry of many people in rage and despair. 
Inarticulate at that distance, it was yet an intelligible curse, 
and the roll, and the roar, and the irregular tramp came 
nearer and nearer. 

“ They’re taking ’em to t’ Eandyvowse,” said Molly. “ Eh ! 
I wish I’d King George here just to tell him my mind.” 

The girl clenched her hands, and set her teeth. 

“ It’s terrible hard ! ” said Hester ; “ there’s mothers, and 
■ wives, looking out for ’em, as if they were stars dropt out o’ 
t’ lift.” 

“ But can we do nothing for ’em ? ” cried Sylvia. “ Let 
us go into t’ thick of it and do a bit of help ; I can’t stand 
quiet and see ’t ! ” Half crying, she pushed forwards to the 
door ; but Philip held her back. 

“ Sylvie ! you must not. Don’t be silly ; it’s the law, and 
no one can do aught against it — least of all women and 
lasses.” 

By this time, the vanguard of the crowd came pressing 
up Bridge Street, past the windows of Foster’s shop. It 
consisted of wild, half -amphibious boys, slowly moving back- 
wards, as they were compelled by the pressure of the coming 
multitude to go on, and yet anxious to defy and annoy the 
gang by insults and curses half choked with their indignant 
passion, doubling their fists in the very faces of the gang 
who came on with measured movement, armed to the teeth, 
their faces showing white with repressed and determined 
energy against the bronzed countenances of the half-dozen 
sailors, who were all they had thought it wise to pick out of 
the whaler’s crew, this being the first time an Admiralty 
warrant had been used in Monkshaven for many years ; not 

30 


Buying a New Cloak 

since the close of the American war, in fact. One of the 
men was addressing to his townspeople, in a high pitched 
voice, an exhortation which few could hear; for, pressing 
around this nucleus of cruel wrong, were women crying 
aloud, throwing up their arms in imprecation, showering 
down abuse as hearty and rapid as if they had been a Greek 
chorus. Their wild, famished eyes were strained on faces 
they might not kiss, their cheeks were flushed to purple with 
anger or else livid with impotent craving for revenge. Some 
of them looked scarce human ; and yet, an hour ago, these 
lips, now tightly drawn back so as to shew the teeth with 
the unconscious action of an enraged wild animal, had been 
soft and gracious with the smile of hope; eyes, that were 
fiery and bloodshot now, had been loving and bright ; hearts, 
never to recover from the sense of injustice and cruelty, had 
been trustful and glad, only one short hour ago. 

There were men there, too, sullen and silent, brooding on 
remedial revenge — but not many, the greater proportion of 
this class being away in the absent whalers. 

• The stormy multitude swelled into the market-place and 
formed a solid crowd there, while the press-gang steadily 
forced their way on into High Street, and on to the rendez- 
vous. A low, deep growl went up from the dense mass, as 
some had to wait for space to follow the others — now and 
then going up, as a lion’s growl goes up, into a shriek 
of rage. 

A woman forced her way up from the bridge. She lived 
some little way in the country, and had been late in hearing 
of the return of the whaler after her six months’ absence ; 
and, on rushing down to the quay-side, she had been told 
by a score of busy, sympathising voices, that her husband 
was kidnapped for the service of the Government. 

She had need pause in the market-place, the outlet of 
which was crammed up. Then she gave tongue for the first 
time in such a fearful shriek, you could hardly catch the words 
she said. 

“ Jamie ! Jamie ! will they not let you to me ? ” 

31 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Those were the last words Sylvia heard, before her own 
hysterical burst of tears called every one’s attention to her. 

She had been very busy about household work in the 
morning, and much agitated by all she had seen and heard 
since coming into Monkshaven ; and so it ended in this. 

Molly and Hester took her through the shop into the 
parlour beyond — John Foster’s parlour, for Jeremiah, the 
elder brother, lived in a house of his own on the other side 
of the water. It was a low, comfortable room, with great 
beams running across the ceiling, and papered with the same 
paper as the walls — a piece of elegant luxury which took 
Molly’s fancy mightily ! This parlour looked out on the 
dark court-yard in which there grew two or three poplars, 
straining upwards to the light ; and, through an open door 
between the backs of two houses, could be seen a glimpse of 
the dancing, heaving river, with such ships or fishing cobles 
as happened to be moored in the waters above the bridge. 

They placed Sylvia on the broad, old-fashioned sofa, and 
gave her water to drink, and tried to still her sobbing and 
choking. They loosened her hat, and copiously splashed her 
face and clustering, chestnut hair, till at length she came to 
herself ; restored, but dripping wet. She sate up and looked 
at them, smoothing back her tangled curls off her brow, as if 
to clear both her eyes and her intellect. 

“ Where am I ? — oh, I know ! Thank you. It was very 
silly ; but somehow it seemed so sad ! ” 

And here she was nearly going off again ; but Hester 
said — 

“ Ay, it were sad, my poor lass — if I may call you so, for 
I don’t rightly know your name — but it’s best not think on 
it, for we can do no mak’ o’ good, and it’ll mebbe set you off 
again. Yo’re Philip Hepburn’s cousin, I reckon, and yo’ 
bide at Haytersbank Farm ? ” 

“ Yes ; she’s Sylvia Eobson,” put in Molly, not seeing 
that Hester’s purpose was to make Sylvia speak, and so to 
divert her attention from the subject which had set her off 
into hysterics. “ And we came in for market,” continued 

32 


Buying a New Cloak 

Molly, “ and for t’ buy t’ new cloak as her feyther’s going to 
give her ; and, for sure, I thought we was i’ luck’s way when 
we saw t’ first whaler, and niver dreaming as t’ press-gang 
’ud be so marred.” 

She, too, began to cry, but her httle whimper was 
stopped by the sound of the opening door behind her. It 
was Philip, asking Hester by a silent gesture if he might 
come in. 

Sylvia turned her face round from the light, and shut her 
eyes. Her cousin came close up to her on tiptoe, and looked 
anxiously at what he could see of her averted face ; then he 
passed his hand so slightly over her hair that he could 
scarcely be said to touch it, and murmured — 

“ Poor lassie ! it’s a pity she came to-day, for it’s a long 
walk in this heat ! ” 

But Sylvia started to her feet, almost pushing him along. 
Her quickened senses heard an approaching step through the 
courtyard before any of the others were aware of the sound. 
In a minute afterwards, the glass- door at one comer of the 
parlour was opened from the outside, and Mr. John stood 
looking in with some surprise at the group collected in his 
usually empty parlour. 

“It’s my cousin,” said Philip, reddening a little; “she 
came wi’ her friend in to market, and to make purchases; 
and she’s got a turn wi’ seeing the press-gang go past carry- 
ing some of the crew of the whaler to the Eandyvowse.” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Mr. John, quickly passing on into the 
shop on tiptoe, as if he were afraid he were intruding in his 
own premises, and beckoning Philip to follow him there. 
“ Out of strife cometh strife. I guessed something of the 
sort was up from what I heard on t’ bridge as I came across 
fra’ brother Jeremiah’s.” Here he softly shut the door 
between the parlour and the shop. “ It beareth hard on 
th’ expectant women and childer ; nor is it to be wondered 
at that they, being unconverted, rage together (poor creatures !) 
like the very heathen. Philip,” he said, coming nearer to 
his “ head young man,” “ keep Nicholas and Henry at work 

33 D 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

in the wareroom upstairs until this riot be over, for it v^ould 
grieve me if they were misled into violence.” 

Philip hesitated. 

“ Speak out, man ! Always ease an uneasy heart, and 
never let it get hidebound*” 

“ I had thought to convoy my cousin and the other young 
woman home, for the town is like to be rough, and it’s 
getting dark.” 

“ And thou shalt, my lad,” said the good old man ; “ and 
I myself will try and restrain the natural inclinations of 
Nicholas and Henry.” 

But when he went to find the shop-boys with a gentle 
homily on his lips, those to whom it should have been 
addressed were absent. In consequence of the riotous state 
of things, all the other shops in the market-place had put 
their shutters up ; and Nicholas and Henry, in the absence 
of their superiors, had followed the example of their neigh- 
bours, and, as business was over, they had hardly waited to 
put the goods away, but had hurried off to help their townsmen 
in any struggle that might ensue. 

There was no remedy for it, but Mr. John looked rather 
discomfited. The state of the counters, and of the dis- 
arranged goods, was such also as would have irritated any 
man as orderly but less sweet-tempered. All he said on the 
subject was : “ The old Adam ! the old Adam ! ” but he shook 
his head long after he had finished speaking. 

“ Where is William Coulson ? ” he next asked. “ Oh ! I 
remember. He was not to come back from York till the 
night closed in.” 

Philip and his master arranged the shop in the exact 
order the old man loved. Then he recollected the wish of 
his subordinate, and turned round and said — 

“Now go with thy cousin and her friend. Hester is here, and 
old Hannah. I myself will take Hester home, if need be. But 
for the present I think she had best tarry here, as it isn’t many 
steps to her mother’s house, and we may need her help if any 
of those poor creatures fall into suffering wi’ their violence.” 

34 


Buying a New Cloak 

With this, Mr. John knocked at the door of the parlour, and 
waited for permission to enter. With old-fashioned courtesy he 
told the two strangers how glad he was that his room had 
been of service to them ; that he would never have made so 
bold as to pass through it, if he had been aware how it was 
occupied. And then, going to a comer cupboard, high up in 
the wall, he pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked his 
little store of wine, and cake, and spirits ; and insisted that 
they should eat and drink while waiting for Philip, who 
was taking some last measures for the security of the shop 
during the night. 

Sylvia declined everything, with less courtesy than she 
ought to have shown to the offers of the hospitable old man. 
Molly took wine and cake, leaving a good half of both, 
according to the code of manners in that part of the country ; 
and also because Sylvia was continually urging her to make 
haste. For the latter disliked the idea of her cousin’s esteem- 
ing it necessary to accompany them home, and wanted to 
escape from him by setting off before he returned. But any 
such plans were frustrated by Philip’s coming back into the 
parlour, full of grave content, which brimmed over from his 
eyes, with the parcel of Sylvia’s obnoxious red duffle under 
his arm ; anticipating so keenly the pleasure awaiting him 
in the walk that he was almost surprised by the gravity of 
his companions as they prepared for it. Sylvia was a little 
penitent for her rejection of Mr. John’s hospitality, now she 
found out how unavailing for its purpose such rejection had 
been, and tried to make up by a modest sweetness of fare- 
well, which quite won his heart, and made him praise her 
up to Hester in a way to which she, observant of all, could 
not bring herself fully to respond. What business had the 
pretty little creature to reject kindly- meant hospitality in 
the pettish way she did ? thought Hester. And, oh ! what 
business had she to be so ungrateful and to try and thwart 
Philip in his thoughtful wish of escorting them through 
the streets of the rough, riotous town ? What did it all 
mean ? 


35 


Sylvia’s Lovers 


CHAPTBE IV 

PHILIP HEPBUEN 

The coast on that part of the island to which this story 
refers is bordered by rocks and cliffs. The inland country 
immediately adjacent to the coast is level, flat, and bleak ; 
it is only where the long stretch of dyke-enclosed flelds 
terminates abruptly in a sheer descent, and the stranger sees 
the ocean creeping up the sands far below him, that he is 
aware on how great an elevation he has been. Here and 
there, as I have said, a cleft in the level land (thus running 
out into the sea in steep promontories) occurs — what they 
would call a “ chine ” in the Isle of Wight ; but, instead of 
the soft south wind stealing up the woody ravine, as it does 
there, the eastern breeze comes piping shrill and clear along 
these northern chasms, keeping the trees that venture to 
grow on the sides down to the mere height of scrubby brush- 
wood. The descent to the shore through these “bottoms” 
is in most cases very abrupt, too much so for a cart- way, or 
even a bridle-path ; but people can pass up and down with- 
out difficulty, by the help of a few rude steps hewn here and 
there out of the rock. 

Sixty or seventy years ago (not to speak of much later 
times) the farmers who owned or hired the land which lay 
directly on the summit of these cliffs were smugglers to the 
extent of their power, only partially checked by the coast- 
guard, distributed, at pretty nearly equal interspaces of eight 
miles, all along the north-eastern seaboard. Still, sea-wrack 
was a good manure, and there was no law against carrying 
it up in great osier baskets for the purposes of tillage ; and 
many a secret thing was lodged in hidden crevices in the 
rocks, till the farmer sent trusty people down to the shore 
for a good supply of sand and seaweed for his land. 

One of the farms on the cliff had lately been taken by 

36 


Philip Hepburn 

Sylvia’s father. He was a man who had roamed about a 
good deal — been sailor, smuggler, horse-dealer, and farmer 
in turns : a sort of fellow possessed by a spirit of adventure 
and love of change, which did him and his own family more 
harm than anybody else. He was just the kind of man that 
all his neighbours found fault with, and all his neighbours 
liked. Late in life (for such an imprudent man as he was 
one of a class who generally wed, trusting to chance and 
luck for the provision for a family). Farmer Eobson married 
a woman whose only want of practical wisdom consisted in 
taking him for a husband. She was Phihp Hepburn’s aunt, 
and had had the charge of him until she married from her 
widowed brother’s house. He it was who had let her know 
when Haytersbank Farm had been to let ; esteeming it a 
likely piece of land for his uncle to settle down upon, after a 
somewhat unprosperous career of horse-dealing. The farm- 
house lay in the shelter of a very slight green hollow, scarcely 
scooped out of the pasture field by which it was surrounded ; 
the short, crisp turf came creeping up to the very door and 
windows, without any attempt at a yard or garden, or any 
nearer enclosure of the buildings than the stone dyke that 
formed the boundary of the field itself. The buildings were 
long and low, in order to avoid the rough violence of the 
winds that swept over that wild, bleak spot, both in winter 
and summer. It was well for the inhabitants of that house 
that coal was extremely cheap ; otherwise a southerner might 
have imagined that they could never have survived the 
cutting of the bitter gales that piped all round, and seemed 
to seek out every crevice for admission into the house. 

But the interior was warm enough, when once you had 
mounted the long, bleak lane, full of round, rough stones, 
enough to lame any horse unaccustomed to such roads, and 
had crossed the field by the little dry, hard footpath, which 
tacked about so as to keep from directly facing the prevail- 
ing wind. Mrs. Eobson was a Cumberland woman, and, as 
such, was a cleaner housewife than the farmers’ wives of 
that north-eastern coast, and was often shocked at their ways ; 

37 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

showing it more by her looks than by her words, for she was 
not a great talker; This fastidiousness in such matters made 
her own house extremely comfortable, but did not tend to 
render her popular among her neighbours. Indeed, Bell 
Eobson piqued herself on her housekeeping generally ; and, 
once in-doors in the grey, bare, stone house, there were 
plenty of comforts to be had besides cleanliness and warmth. 
The great rack of clap-bread hung overhead, and Bell 
Eobson ’s preference of this kind of oat- cake over the leavened 
and partly sour kind used in Yorkshire was another source 
of her unpopularity. Flitches of bacon and “ hands ” (i.e., 
shoulders of cured pork), the legs or hams being sold, as 
fetching a better price, abounded ; and, for any visitor who 
could stay, neither cream nor finest wheaten flour was want- 
ing for “ turf cakes ” and “ singing hinnies,” with which it is 
the delight of the northern housewives to regale the honoured 
guest, as he sips their high-priced tea, sweetened with dainty 
sugar. 

This night Farmer Eobson was fidgeting in and out of 
his house-door, climbing the little eminence in the field, and 
coming down disappointed in a state of fretful impatience. 
His quiet, taciturn wife was a little put out by Sylvia’s non- 
appearance too ; but she showed her anxiety by being shorter 
than usual in her replies to his perpetual wonders as to 
where the lass could have been tarrying, and by knitting 
away with extra diligence. 

“ I’ve a vast o’ mind to go down to Monkshaven mysen, 
and see after t’ child. It’s well on for seven.” 

“No, Dannel,” said his wife; “ thou’d best not. Thy 
leg has been paining thee this week past, and thou’rt not up 
to such a walk. I’ll rouse Kester, and send him off, if thou 
think’st there’s need on it.” 

“ A’ll noan ha’ Kester roused. Who’s to go afield 
betimes after t’ sheep in t’ morn, if he’s ca’ed up to-neet? 
He’d miss t’ lass, and find a public-house, a reckon,” said 
Daniel querulously. 

“ I’m not afeard o’ Kester,” replied Bell. “ He’s a good 
38 


Philip Hepburn 

one for knowing folk i’ th’ dark. But if thou’d rather, I’ll 
put on my hood and cloak and just go to th’ end o’ th’ lane, 
if thou’lt have an eye to th’ milk, and see as it does na’ 
boil o’er, for she canna stomach it if it’s bishopped e’er so 
little.” 

Before Mrs. Eobson, however, had put away her knitting, 
voices were heard at a good distance down the lane, but 
coming nearer every moment ; and once more Daniel climbed 
the little brow to look and to listen. 

“ It’s a’ reet ! ” said he, hobbling quickly down. “ Never 
fidget theesel’ wi’ gettin’ ready to go search for her. I’ll tak’ 
thee a bet it’s Philip Hepburn’s voice, convoying her home, 
just as I said he would, an hour sin’.” 

Bell did not answer, as she might have done, that this 
probability of Philip’s bringing Sylvia home had been her 
own suggestion, set aside by her husband as utterly unlikely. 
Another minute, and the countenances of both parents im- 
perceptibly and unconsciously relaxed into pleasure, as Sylvia 
came in. 

She looked very rosy from the walk and the October air, 
which began to be frosty in the evenings ; there was a little 
cloud over her face at first, but it was quickly dispersed as 
she met the loving eyes of home. Philip, who followed her, 
had an excited, but not altogether pleased, look about him. 
He received a hearty greeting from Daniel, and a quiet one 
from his aunt. 

“ Tak’ off thy pan o’ milk, missus, and set on t’ kettle. 
Milk may do for wenches, but Philip and me is for a drop o’ 
good Hollands and water this cold night. I’m a’most chilled 
to t’ marrow wi’ looking out for thee, lass ; for t’ mother was 
in a peck o’ troubles about thy noane coming home i’ t’ 
dayleet, and I’d to keep hearkening out on t’ browhead.” 

This was entirely untrue, and Bell knew it to be so ; but 
her husband did not. He had persuaded himself now, as he 
had done often before, that what he had in reality done for 
his own pleasure or satisfaction, he had done in order to 
gratify some one else. 


39 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ The town was rough with a riot between the press- 
gang and the whaling folk ; and I thought I’d best see 
Sylvia home.” 

“Ay, ay, lad; always welcome, if it’s only as. an excuse 
for t’ liquor. But t’ whalers, say’st ta ? Why, is t’ whalers 
in ? There was none i’ sight yesterday, when I were down 
on t’ shore. It’s early days for ’em as yet. And t’ cursed 
old press-gang’s agate again doing its devil’s work ! ” 

His face changed as he ended his speech, and showed a 
steady passion of old hatred. 

“ Ay, missus, yo’ may look. I wunnot pick and choose 
my words, noather for yo’ nor for nobody, when I speak o’ 
that daumed gang. I’m noane ashamed o’ my words. They’re 
true, and I’m ready to prove ’em. Where’s my forefinger ? 
Ay ! and as good a top- joint of a thumb as iver a man had ! 
I wish I’d kept ’em i’ sperits, as they done things at t’ 
potticary’s, just to show t’ lass what flesh and bone I made 
away wi’ to get free. I ups wi’ a hatchet when I saw as 
I were fast a-board a man-o’-war standing out for sea — it 
were in t’ time o’ the war wi’ Amerikay, an’ I could na’ 
stomach the thought o’ being murdered i’ my own language 
— so I ups wi’ a hatchet, and I says to Bill Watson, says I, 

‘ Now, my lad, if thou’ll do me a kindness. I’ll pay thee 
back, niver fear, and they’ll be glad enough to get. shut on 
us, and send us to old England again. Just come down 
with a will ! ’ Now, Missus, why can’t ye sit still and listen 
to me, ’stead o’ pottering after pans and what not ? ” said he, 
speaking crossly to his wife, who had heard the story scores 
of times, and, it must be confessed, was making some noise 
in preparing bread and milk for Sylvia’s supper. 

Bell did not say a word in reply ; but Sylvia tapped his 
shoulder with a pretty little authoritative air. 

“ It’s for me, feyther. I’m just keen-set for my supper. 
Once let me get quickly set down to it, and Philip there to 
his glass o’ grog, and you’ll never have such listeners in 
your life, and mother’s mind will be at ease too.” 

“ Eh ! thou’s a wilfu’ wench,” said the proud father, 
40 


Philip Hepburn 

giving her a great slap on her back. “ Well ! set thee down 
to thy victual, and be quiet wi’ thee, for I want to finish my 
tale to Philip. But, perhaps, I’ve telled it yo’ afore ? ” said 
he, turning round to question Hepburn. 

Hepburn could not say that he had not heard it, for he 
piqued himself on his truthfulness. But instead of frankly 
and directly owning this, he tried to frame a formal little 
speech, which would soothe Daniel’s mortified vanity ; and, 
of course, it had the directly opposite effect. Daniel resented 
being treated like a child, and yet turned his back on Philip 
with all the wilfulness of one. Sylvia did not care for her 
cousin, but hated the discomfort of having her father dis- 
pleased ; so she took up her tale of adventure, and told her 
father and mother of her afternoon’s proceedings. Daniel 
pretended not to listen at first, and made ostentatious noises 
with his spoon and glass ; but by-and-by he got quite warm 
and excited about the doings of the press-gang, and scolded 
both Philip and Sylvia for not having learned more particulars 
as to what was the termination of the riot. 

“ I’ve been whalin’ mysel’,” said he ; “ and I’ve heerd 
tell as whalers wear knives ; and I’d ha’ gi’en t’ gang a taste 
o’ my whittle, if I’d been cotched up just as I’d set my foot 
a- shore.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Philip ; “ we’re at war wi’ the 
French, and we shouldn’t like to be beaten ; and yet, if our 
numbers are not equal to theirs, we stand a strong chance 
of it.” 

“ Not a bit on’t — so be d — d ! ” said Daniel Eobson, 
bringing down his fist with such violence On the round deal 
table, that the glasses and earthenware shook again. “ Yo’d 
not strike a child or a woman, for sure ! yet it ’ud be like it, 
if we did na’ give the Frenchies some ’vantages — if we took 
’em wi’ equal numbers. It’s not fair play, and that’s one 
place where t’ shoe pinches. It’s not fair play two ways. 
It’s not fair play to cotch up men as has no call for fightin’ 
at another man’s biddin’, though they’ve no objection to 
fight a hit on their own account, and who are just landed, 

41 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

all keen after bread i’stead o’ biscuit, and flesh-meat i’stead 
o’ junk, and beds i’stead o’ hammocks. (I make naught o’ 
t’ sentiment side, for I were niver gi’en up to such carnal- 
mindedness and poesies.) It’s noane fair to cotch ’em up 
and put ’em in a stifling hole, all lined with metal for fear 
they should whittle their way out, and send ’em off to sea 
for years an’ years to come. And again it’s no fair play to 
t’ French. Four o’ them is rightly matched wi’ one o’ us ; 
and if we go an’ fight ’em four to four it’s hke as if yo’ 
fell to heatin’ Sylvie there, or little Billy Croxton, as isn’t 
breeched. And that’s my mind. Missus, where’s t’ pipe ? ” 
Philip did not smoke, so took his turn at talking, a 
chance he seldom had with Daniel, unless the latter had his 
pipe between his lips. So after Daniel had filled it, and 
used Sylvia’s little finger as a stopper to ram down the 
tobacco — a habit of his to which she was so accustomed 
that she laid her hand on the table by him, as naturally as 
she would have fetched him his spittoon when he began to 
smoke — Philip arranged his arguments, and began — 

“ I’m for fair play wi’ the French as much as any man, 
as long as we can be sure o’ beating them ; but I say, make 
sure o’ that, and then give them ivery advantage. Now I 
reckon Government is not sure as yet, for i’ the papers it 
said as half the ships i’ th’ Channel hadn’t got their proper 
complement o’ men; and all as I say is, let Government 
judge a bit for us; and, if they say they’re hampered for 
want o’ men, why, we must make it up somehow. John and 
Jeremiah Foster pay in taxes, and Militiaman pays in 
person ; and, if sailors cannot pay in taxes, and will not pay 
in person, why, they must be made to pay ; and that’s what 
th’ press-gang is for, I reckon. For my part, when I read 
o the way those French chaps are going on, I’m thankful to 
be governed by King George and a British Constitution.” 
Daniel took his pipe out of his mouth at this. 

And when did I say a word again King George and the 
Constitution ? I only ax ’em to govern me as I judge best, 
and that’s what I call representation. When I gived my 

42 


Philip Hepburn 

vote to Measter Cholmley to go up to t’ Parliament House, 
I as go6d as said, ‘ Now yo’ go up theer, sir, and tell ’em 
what I, Dannel Eobson, think right, and what I, Dannel 
Eobson, wish to have done.’ Else I’d be darned if I’d ha’ 
gi’en my vote to him or any other man. And div yo’ think 
I want Seth Eobson (as is my own brother’s son, and mate 
to a collier) to be cotched up by a press-gang, and ten to one 
his wages all unpaid ? Div yo’ think I’d send up Measter 
Cholmley to speak up for that piece o’ work ? Not I.” He 
took up his pipe again, shook out the ashes, puffed it into 
a spark, and shut his eyes, preparatory to listening. 

“ But, asking pardon, laws is made for the good of the 
nation, not for your good or mine.” 

Daniel could not stand this. He laid down his pipe, 
opened his eyes, stared straight at Philip before speaking, in 
order to enforce his words, and then said slowly — 

“ Nation here !. nation theere ! I’m a man and yo’re 
another ; but nation’s nowheere. If Measter Cholmley talked 
to me i’ that fashion, he’d look long for another vote frae 
me. I can make out King George, and Measter Pitt, and 
yo’ and me ; but nation ! nation go hang ! ” 

Philip, who sometimes pursued an argument longer than 
was politic for himself, especially when he felt sure of being 
on the conquering side, did not see that Daniel Eobson was 
passing out of the indifference of conscious wisdom into 
that state of anger which ensues when a question becomes 
personal in some unspoken way. Eobson had contested this 
subject once or twice before, and had the remembrance of 
former disputes to add to his present vehemence. So it was 
well for the harmony of the evening that Bell and Sylvia 
returned from the kitchen to sit in the house-place. They 
had been to wash up the pans and basins used for supper ; 
Sylvia had privately shown off her cloak, and got over her 
mother’s shake of the head at its colour with a coaxing kiss, 
at ‘the end of which her mother had adjusted her cap with a 
“ There ! there ! ha’ done wi’ thee,” but had no more heart 
to show her disapprobation ; and now they came back to 

43 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

their usual occupations until it should please their visitor to 
go ; then they would rake the fire and be off to bed ; for 
neither Sylvia’s spinning nor Bell’s knitting was worth 
candle-light, and morning hours are precious in a dairy. 

People speak of the way in which harp-playing sets off a 
graceful figure ; spinning is almost as becoming an employ- 
ment. A woman stands at the great wool- wheel, one arm 
extended, the other holding the thread, her head thrown back 
to take in all the scope of her occupation ; or, if it is the 
lesser spinning-wheel for flax — and it was this that Sylvia 
moved forwards to-night— the pretty sound of the buzzing, 
whirring motion, the attitude of the spinner, foot and hand 
alike engaged in the business — the bunch of gay coloured 
ribbon that ties the bundle of flax on the rock — all make it 
into a picturesque piece of domestic business that may rival 
harp-playing any day for the amount of softness and grace 
which it calls out. 

Sylvia’s cheeks were rather flushed by the warmth of the 
room after the frosty air. The blue ribbon with which she 
had thought it necessary to tie back her hair before putting 
on her hat to go to market had got rather loose, and allowed 
her disarranged curls to stray in a manner which would have 
annoyed her extremely, if she had been upstairs to look at 
herself in the glass ; but, although they were not set in the 
exact fashion which Sylvia esteemed as correct, they looked 
very pretty and luxuriant. Her little foot, placed on the 
“ traddle,” was still encased in its smartly buckled shoe — not 
slightly to her discomfort, as she was unaccustomed to be 
shod in walking far ; only, as Philip had accompanied them 
home, neither she nor Molly had liked to go barefoot. Her 
round, mottled arm and ruddy, taper hand drew out the flax 
with nimble, agile motion, keeping time to the movement of 
the wheel. All this Philip could see ; the greater part of her 
face was lost to him as she half averted it, with a shy dislike 
to the way in which she knew from past experience that 
Cousin Philip always stared at her. But, avert it as she 
would, she heard with silent petulance the harsh screech of 

44 


Philip Hepburn 

Philip’s chair as he heavily dragged it on the stone floor, 
sitting on it all the while, and felt that he was moving round 
so as to look at her as much as was in his power, without 
absolutely turning his back on either her father or mother. 
She got herself ready for the first opportunity of contradiction 
or opposition. 

“ Well, wench ! and has ta bought this grand new 
cloak ? ” 

“ Yes, feyther. It’s a scarlet one.” 

“ Ay, ay ! and what does mother say ? ” 

“ Oh, mother’s content,” said Sylvia, a httle doubting in 
her heart, but determined to defy Philip at all hazards. 

“ Mother ’ll put up with it, if it does na’ spot, would be 
nearer fact, I’m thinking,” said Bell quietly. 

“ I wanted Sylvia to take the grey,” said Philip. 

“ And I chose the red ; it’s so much gayer, and folk can 
see me the farther ofl“. Feyther likes to see me at first turn 
o’ t’ lane, don’t yo’, feyther ? and I’ll niver turn out when its 
boun’ for to rain, so it shall niver get a spot near it, 
mammy.” 

“ I reckoned it were to wear i’ bad weather,” said Bell. 
“ Leastways that were the pretext for coaxing feyther out 
o’ it.” 

She said it in a kindly tone, though the words became a 
prudent rather than a fond mother. But Sylvia understood 
her better than Daniel did, as it appeared. 

“ Hou’d thy tongue, mother. She niver spoke a pretext 
at all.” 

He did not rightly know what a “ pretext ” was. Bell was 
a touch better educated than her husband ; but he did not 
acknowledge this, and made a particular point of differing 
from her whenever she used a word beyond his comprehension. 

“ She’s a good lass at times ; and if she liked to wear a 
yellow-orange cloak she should have it. Here's Philip here, 
as stands up for laws and press-gangs. I’ll set him to find us 
a law again pleasing our lass : and she our only one. Thou 
dostn’t think on that, mother I ” 

45 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Bell did think of that often — oftener than her husband, 
perhaps ; for she remembered every day, and many times a 
day, the little one that had been born and had died while its 
father was away on some long voyage. But it was not her 
way to makes replies. 

Sylvia, who had more insight into her mother’s heart 
than Daniel, broke in with a new subject. 

“ Oh ! as for Philip, he’s been preaching up laws all t’ 
way home. I said naught, but let Molly hold her own ; or 
else I could ha’ told a tale about silks an’ lace an’ things.” 

Philip’s face flushed. Not because of the smuggling ; 
every one did that, only it was considered polite to ignore it ; 
but he was annoyed to perceive how quickly his little cousin 
had discovered that his practice did not agree with his 
preaching, and vexed, too, to see how delighted she was to 
bring out the fact. He had some little idea, too, that his 
uncle might make use of his practice as an argument against 
the preaching he had lately been indulging in, in opposition 
to Daniel ; but Daniel was too far gone in his Hollands-and- 
water to do more than enunciate his own opinions, which he 
did with hesitating and laboured distinctness in the following 
sentence — 

“ What I think and say is this. Laws is made for to 
keep some folks fra’ harming others. Press-gangs and coast- 
guards harm me i’ my business, and keep me fra’ getting 
what I want. Theerefore, what I think and say is this : 
Measter Cholmley should put down press-gangs and coast- 
guards. If that theere isn’t reason, I ax yo’ to tell me what 
is ? an’ if Measter Cholmley don’t do what I ax him, he may 
go whistle for my vote, he may.” 

At this period in his conversation. Bell Eobson interfered ; 
not in the least from any feeling of disgust or annoyance, or 
dread of what he might say or do if he went on drinking, 
but simply as a matter of health. Sylvia, too, was in no 
way annoyed ; not only with her father, but with every man 
whom she knew, excepting her cousin Philip, was it a matter 
of course to drink till their ideas became confused. So she 

46 


Story of the Press-gang 

simply put her wheel aside, as preparatory to going to bed, 
when her mother said, in a more decided tone than that 
which she had used on any other occasion but this, and 
similar ones — 

“ Come, measter, you’ve had as much as is good for you.” 

“ Let a’ be ! Let a’ be,” said he, clutching at the bottle 
of spirits, but perhaps rather more good-humoured with what 
he had drunk than he was before ; he jerked a little more 
into his glass before his wife carried it off, and locked it up 
in the cupboard, putting the key in her pocket, and then he 
said, winking at Philip — 

“ Eh ! my man. Niver gie a woman t’ whip hand o’er 
yo’ ! Yo’ seen what it brings a man to ; but for a’ that I’ll 
vote for Cholmley, an’ d t’ press-gang ! ” 

He had to shout out the last after Philip ; for Hepburn, 
really anxious to please his aunt, and disliking drinking 
habits himself by constitution, was already at the door and 
setting out on his return home, thinking, it must be confessed, 
far more of the character of Sylvia’s shake of the hand than 
of the parting words of either his uncle or aunt. 


CHAPTEE V 

STOEY OP THE PEESS-GANG 

Foe a few days after the evening mentioned in the last 
chapter the weather was dull. Not in quick, sudden showers 
did the rain come down, but in constant drizzle, blotting out 
all colour from the surrounding landscape, and filling the air 
with fine, grey mist, until people breathed more water than 
air. At such times the consciousness of the nearness of the 
vast, unseen sea acted as a dreary depression to the spirits ; 
but, besides acting on the nerves of the excitable, such weather 
affected the sensitive or ailing in material ways. Daniel 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

Eobson’s fit of rheumatism incapacitated him from stirring 
abroad ; and to a man of his active habits, and somewhat 
inactive mind, this was a great hardship. He was not ill- 
tempered naturally, but this state of confinement made him 
more ill-tempered than he had ever been before in his life. 
He sat in the chimney-corner, abusing the weather and 
doubting the wisdom or desirableness of all his wife saw fit 
to do in the usual daily household matters. The “ chimney- 
corner” was really a corner at Haytersbank. There were 
two projecting walls on each side of the fire-place, running 
about six feet into the roorn, and a stout, wooden settle was 
placed against one of these ; while opposite was the circular- 
backed “ master’s chair,” the seat of which was composed of 
a square piece of wood, judiciously hollowed out and placed 
with one corner to the front. Here, in full view of all the 
operations going on over the fire, sat Daniel Eobson for four 
live-long days, advising and directing his wife in all such 
minor matters as the boiling of potatoes, the making of 
porridge, all the work on which she specially piqued herself, 
and on which she would have taken advice — no ! not from 
the most skilled housewife in all the three Eidings. But, 
somehow, she managed to keep her tongue quiet from telling 
him, as she would have done any woman, and any other 
man, to mind his own business, or she would pin a dish- 
clout to his tail. She even checked Sylvia, when the latter 
proposed, as much for fun as for anything else, that his 
ignorant directions should be followed, and the consequences 
brought before his eyes and his nose. 

“ Na, na ! ” said Bell, “ th’ feyther’s feyther, and we mun 
respect him. But it’s dree work havin’ a man i’ th’ house, 
nursing th’ fire, an’ such weather too, and not a soul coming 
near us, not even to fall out wi’ him ; for thee and me must 
na’ do that, for th’ Bible’s sake, dear ; and a good stand-up 
wordy quarrel would do him a power of good ; stir his blood 
like. I wish Philip would turn up.” 

Bell sighed ; for in these four days she had experienced 
somewhat of Madame de Maintenon’s difficulty (and with 

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Story of the Press-gang 

fewer resources to meet it) of trying to amuse a man who 
was not amusable. For Bell, good and sensible as she was, 
was not a woman of resources. Sylvia’s plan, undutiful as 
it was in her mother’s eyes, would have done Daniel more good, 
even though it might have made him angry, than his wife’s 
quiet, careful monotony of action, which, however it might 
conduce to her husband’s comfort when he was absent, did 
not amuse him when present. 

Sylvia scouted the notion of cousin Philip coming into 
their household in the character of an amusing or entertain- 
ing person, till she nearly made her mother angry at her 
ridicule of the good, steady young fellow, to whom Bell 
looked up as the pattern of all that early manhood should be. 
But the moment Sylvia saw she had been giving her mother 
pain, she left off her wilful little jokes, and kissed her, and 
told her she would manage all famously, and ran out of the 
back-kitchen, in which mother and daughter had been scrub- 
bing the churn and all the wooden implements of butter- 
making. Bell looked at the pretty figure of her little daughter, 
as, running past with her apron thrown over her head, she 
darkened the window beneath which her mother was doing 
her work. She paused just for a moment, and then said, 
almost unawares to herself, “ Bless thee, lass,” before resuming 
her scouring of what already looked almost snow-white. 

Sylvia scampered across the rough farm-yard in the 
wetting, drizzling rain to the place where she expected to 
find Kester ; but he was not there, so she had to retrace her 
steps to the cow-house ; and, making her way up a rough 
kind of ladder-staircase, fixed straight against the wall, she 
surprised Kester as he sat in the wool-loft, looking over the 
fleeces reserved for the home-spinning, by popping her bright 
face, swathed round with her blue woollen apron, up through 
the trap-door, and thus, her head the only visible part, she 
addressed the farm-servant, who was almost hke one of the 
family. 

“Kester, feyther’s just tiring hissel’ wi’ weariness an’ 
vexation, sitting by t’ fireside wi’ his hands afore him, an’ 

49 E 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

nought to do. An’ mother and me can’t think on aught 
as ’ll rouse him up to a hit of a laugh, or aught more cheerful 
than a scolding. Now, Kester, thou mun just he off, and 
find Harry Donkin th’ tailor, and bring him here ; it’s gettin’ 
on for Martinmas, an’ he’ll be coming his rounds, and he 
may as well come here first as last, and feyther’s clothes 
want a deal o’ mending up, and Harry’s always full of his 
news, and anyhow he’ll do for feyther to scold, an’ be a new 
person too, and that’s somewhat for all on us. Now go, like 
a good old Kester as yo’ are.” 

Kester looked at her with loving, faithful admiration. He 
had set himself his day’s work in his master’s absence, and 
was very desirous of finishing it ; but, somehow, he never 
dreamed of resisting Sylvia ; so he only stated the case. 

“ T’ ’ool’s a vast o’ muck in ’t, an’ a thowt as a’d fettle it, 
an’ do it up ; but a reckon a mun do yo’r biddin’.” 

“ There’s a good old Kester,” said She, smiling, and nod- 
ding her muffled head at him ; then she dipped down out of 
his sight, then rose up again (he had never taken his slow, 
mooney eyes from the spot where she had disappeared) to 
say — “ Now, Kester, be wary and deep — thou mun tell Harry 
Donkin not to let on as we’ve sent for him, but just to come 
in as if he were on his round, and took us first ; and he mun 
ask feyther if there is any work for him to do ; and I’ll 
answer for ’t, he’ll have a welcome and a half. Now, be 
deep and fause, mind thee ! ” 

“ A’se deep an’ fause enow wi’ simple folk ; but what can 
a do i’ Donkin be as fause as me — as happen he may be ? ” 

“ Ga way wi’ thee ! I’ Donkin be Solomon, thou mun be 
t’ Queen o’ Sheba ; and I’se bound for to say she outwitted 
him at last ! ” 

Kester laughed so long at the idea of his being the Queen 
of Sheba, that Sylvia was back by her mother’s side before 
the cachinnation ended. 

That night, just as Sylvia was preparing to go to bed in 
her little closet of a room, she heard some shot rattling at 
her window. She opened the little casement, and saw 

50 


Story of the Press-gang 

Kester standing below. He recommenced where he left off, 
with a laugh — 

“ He, he, he ! A’s been t’ queen ! A’se ta’en Donkin on 
t’ reet side, an’ he’ll coom in to-morrow, just permiskus, an’ 
ax for work, like as if ’t were a favour ; t’ oud felly were a bit 
cross-grained at startin’, for he were workin’ at Farmer 
Crosskey’s, up at t’ other side o’ t’ town, wheer they puts a 
strike an’ a half o’ maut intil t’ beer, when most folk put 
nobbut a strike, an’ ’t made him ill to convince ; but he’ll 
coom, niver fear ! ” 

The honest fellow never said a word of the shilling he 
had paid out of his own pocket to forward Sylvia’s wishes, 
and to persuade the tailor to leave the good beer. All his 
anxiety now was to know if he had been missed, and if it 
was likely that a scolding awaited him in the morning. 

“ T’ oud measter didn’t set up his back, ’cause a didn’t 
coom in t’ supper ? ” 

“ He questioned a bit as to what thou were about ; but 
mother didn’t know, an’ I held my peace. Mother carried 
thy supper in t’ loft for thee.” 

“ A’ll gang after ’t, then, for a’m like a pair o’ bellowses 
wi’ t’ wind out ; just two flat sides wi’ nowt betwixt.” 

The next morning Sylvia’s face was a little redder than 
usual, when Harry Donkin’s bow-legs were seen circling down 
the path to the house door. 

“ Here’s Donkin, for sure ! ” exclaimed Bell, when she 
caught sight of him a minute after her daughter. “ Well, I 
just call that lucky! for he’ll be company for thee while 
Sylvia and me has to turn th’ cheeses.” 

This was too original a remark for a wife to make in 
Daniel’s opinion, on this especial morning, when his rheuma- 
tism was twinging him more than usual ; so he replied with 
severity — 

“ That’s all t’ women know about it. Wi’ them it’s 
‘ coompany, coompany, coompany,’ an’ they think a man’s 
no better than theirsels. A’d have yo’ to know a’ve a vast o’ 
thoughts in mysel’, as I’m noane willing to lay out for t’ 

51 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

benefit o’ every man. A’ve niver gotten time for meditation 
sin’ a were married ; leastways, sin’ a left t’ sea. Aboard 
ship, wi’ niver a woman wi’in leagues o’ hail, and upo’ t’ 
masthead, in special, a could.” 

“Then I’d better tell Donkin as we’ve no work for 
him,” said Sylvia, instinctively managing her father by 
agreeing with him, instead of reasoning with or contradict- 
ing him. 

“ Now, theere you go ! ” wrenching himself round, for 
fear Sylvia should carry her meekly-made threat into execu- 
tion. “ Ugh ! ugh ! ” as his limb hurt him. “ Come in, 
Harry, come in, and talk a bit o’ sense to me, for a’ve been 
shut up wi’ women these four days, and a’m a’most a 
nateral by this time. A’se bound for ’t, they’ll find yo’ some 
wark, if ’t’s nought but for to save their own fingers.” 

So Harry took off his coat, and seated himself profes- 
sional-wise on the hastily- cleared dresser, so that he might 
have all the light afforded by the long, low casement window. 
Then he blew in his thimble, sucked his finger, so that they 
might adhere tightly together, and looked about for a subject 
for opening conversation, while Sylvia and her mother might 
be heard opening and shutting drawers and box-lids before 
they could find the articles that needed repair, or that were 
required to mend each other. 

“ Women’s well enough i’ their way,” said Daniel, in a 
philosophising tone, “ but a man may have too much on ’em. 
Now there’s me, leg-fast these four days, and a’ll make free 
to say to yo’, a’d rather a deal ha’ been loading dung i’ t’ 
wettest weather ; an’ a reckon it’s th’ being wi’ nought but 
women as tires me so ; they talk so foolish it gets inf f 
bones like. Now thou know’st thou’rt not called much of a 
man oather, but bless yo’, f ninth part’s summut to be thankful 
for, after nought but women. An’ yet, yo’ seen, they were 
for sending yo’ away i’ their foolishness ! Well ! missus, 
and who’s to pay for f fettling of all them clothes ? ” as Bell 
came down with her arms full. She was going to answer 
her husband meekly and literally according to her wont, but 

52 


Story of the Press-gang 

Sylvia, already detecting the increased cheerfulness of his 
tone, called out from behind her mother — 

“ I am, feyther. I’m going for to sell my new cloak as I 
bought Thursday, for the mending on your old coats and 
waistcoats.” 

“ Hearken till her,” said Daniel, chuckling. “ She’s a 
true wench. Three days sin’ noane so full as she o’ t’ new 
cloak that now she’s fain t’ sell.” 

“ Ay, Harry. If feyther won’t pay yo’ for making all 
these old clothes as good as new, I’ll sell my new red cloak 
sooner than yo’ shall go unpaid.” 

“ A reckon it’s a bargain,” said Harry, casting sharp, 
professional eyes on the heap before him, and singling out 
the best article as to texture for examination and comment. 

“ They’re all again these metal buttons,” said he. “ Silk 
weavers has been petitioning ministers t’ make a law to 
favour silk buttons ; and I did hear tell as there were in- 
formers goin’ about spyin’ after metal buttons, and as how 
they could haul yo’ before a justice for wearing on ’em.” 

“ A were wed in ’em, and a’ll wear ’em to my dyin’ day. 
or a’ll wear noane at a’. They’re for makking such a pack 
o’ laws, they’ll be for meddling wi’ my fashion o’ sleeping 
next, and taxing me for ivery snore a give. They’ve been 
after t’ winders, and after t’ vittle, and after t’ very saut to 
't ; it’s dearer by hauf an’ more nor it were when a were a 
boy : they’re a meddlesome set o’ folks, law-makers is, an’ 
a’ll niver believe King George has ought t’ do wi’ ’t. But 
mark my words ; I were wed wi’ brass buttons, and brass 
buttons a’ll wear to my death ; an’ if they moither me about 
it, a’ll wear brass buttons i’ my coffin ! ” 

By this time Harry had arranged a certain course of 
action with Mrs. Eobson, conducting the consultation and 
agreement by signs. His thread was flying fast already, and 
the mother and daughter felt more free to pursue their own 
business than they had done for several days ; for it was a 
good sign that Daniel had taken his pipe out of the square 
hollow in the fireside wall, where he usually kept it, and was 

53 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

preparing to diversify his remarks with satisfying interludes 
of puffing. 

“ Why, look ye ; this very baccy had a run for ’t. It 
came ashore sewed up neatly enough i’ a woman’s stays, as 
was wife to a fishing-smack down at ’t bay yonder. She 
were a lean thing as iver you saw, when she went for t’ see 
her husband aboard t’ vessel ; but she coom back lustier by 
a deal, an’ wi’ many a thing on her, here and theere, beside 
baccy. An’ that were i’ t’ face o’ coast-guard and yon tender, 
an’ a’. But she made as though she were tipsy, an’ so they 
did nought but curse her, an’ get out on her way.” 

“ Speaking of t’ tender, there’s been a piece o’ wark i’ 
Monkshaven this week wi’ t’ press-gang,” said Harry. 

“ Ay ! ay ! our lass was telling about ’t ; but. Lord bless 
ye ! there’s no gettin’ t’ rights on a story out on a woman— 
though a will say this for our Sylvie, she’s as bright a lass 
as iver a man looked at.” 

Now the truth was, that Daniel had not liked to demean 
himself, at the time when Sylvia came back so full of what 
she had seen at Monkshaven, by evincing any curiosity on 
the subject. He had then thought that the next day he 
would find some business that should take him down to the 
town, when he could learn all that was to be learnt, without 
flattering his womankind by asking questions, as if anything 
they might say could interest him. He had a strong notion 
of being a kind of domestic Jupiter. 

“It’s made a deal o’ wark i’ Monkshaven. Folk had 
gotten to think nought o’ t’ tender, she lay so still, an’ t’ 
leftenant paid such a good price for all he wanted for t’ ship. 
But o’ Thursday t’ Resolution, first whaler back this season, 
came in port, and t’ press-gang showed their teeth, and 
carried off four as good able-bodied seamen as iver I made 
trousers for; and t’ place were all up like a nest o’ wasps, 
when yo’ve set your foot in t’ midst. They were so mad, 
they were ready for t’ fight t’ very pavin’ stones.” 

“ A wish a’d been theere ! A just wish a had ! A’ve a 
score for t’ reckon up wi’ t’ press-gang ! ” 

54 


Story of the Press-gang 

And the old man lifted up his right hand — his hand on 
which the forefinger and thumb were maimed and useless — 
partly in denunciation, and partly as a witness of what he 
had endured to escape from the service, abhorred because 
it was forced. His face became a totally different counte- 
nance, with the expression of settled and unrelenting in- 
dignation which his words called out. 

“ G’on, man, g’on,” said Daniel, impatient with Donkin 
for the little delay occasioned by the necessity of arranging 
his work more fully. 

“ Ay ! ay ! all in good time ; for a’ve a long tale to tell yet ; 
an’ a mun have some ’un to iron me out my seams, and look 
me out my bits, for there’s none here fit for my purpose.” 

“ Dang thy bits ! Here, Sylvie ! Sylvie ! come and be 
tailor’s man, and let t’ chap get settled sharp, for a’m fain t’ 
hear his story.” 

Sylvia took her directions, and placed her irons in the fire, 
and ran upstairs for the bundle which had been put aside 
by her careful mother for occasions like the present. It 
consisted of small pieces of various -coloured cloth, cut out 
of old coats and waistcoats, and similar garments, when the 
whole had become too much worn for use, yet when part 
had been good enough to be treasured by a thrifty house- 
wife. Daniel grew angry before Donkin had selected his 
patterns and settled the work to his own mind. 

“ Well,” said he at last ; “a mought be a young man 
a-goin’ a wooin’, by t’ pains thou’st taken for t’ match my 
oud clothes. I don’t care if they’re patched wi’ scarlet, a 
tell thee ; so as thou’lt work away at thy tale wi’ thy tongue, 
same time as thou works at thy needle wi’ thy fingers.” 

“ Then, as a were saying, all Monkshaven were like a nest 
o’ wasps, flyin’ hither and thither, and makin’ sich a buzzin’ 
and a talkin’ as niver were ; and each wi’ his sting out 
ready for t’ vent his venom o’ rage and revenge. And women 
cryin’ and sobbin’ i’ t’ streets — when. Lord help us ! o’ Satur- 
day came a worse time than iver ! for all Friday there had 
been a kind o’ expectation an’ dismay about t’ Good Fortune^ 

55 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

as t’ mariners had said was off St. Abb’s Head o’ Thursday, 
when t’ Resolution came in ; and there was wives and maids 
wi’ husbands an’ sweethearts aboard t’ Good Fortune ready to 
throw their eyes out on their heads wi ’ gazin’, gazin’ nor’ards 
over t’ sea, as were all one haze o’ blankness wi’ t’ rain ; and, 
when t’ afternoon tide corned in,* an’ niver a line on her to be 
seen, folk were oncertain as t’ whether she were holding off 
for fear o’ t’ tender — as were out o’ sight, too — or what were 
her mak’ o’ goin’ on. An’ t’ poor, wet, draggled women-folk 
came up t’ town, some slowly cryin’, as if their hearts was 
sick, an’ others just bent their heads to t’ wind, and went 
straight to their homes, nother looking nor speaking to ony 
one ; but barred their doors, and stiffened theirsels up for a 
night o’ waiting. Saturday morn — yo’ll mind Saturday morn, 
it were stormy and gusty, downreet dirty weather— theere 
stood t’ folk again by daylight, a watching an’ a straining ; 
and by that tide t’ Good Fortune came o’er t’ bar. But t’ 
excisemen had sent back her news by t’ boat as took ’em 
there. They’d a deal of oil, and a vast o’ blubber. But for 
all that her flag was drooping i’ t’ rain, half mast high, for 
mourning and sorrow, an’ they’d a dead man aboard — a dead 
man as was Hving and strong last sunrise. An’ there was 
another as lay between life an’ death, and there was seven 
more as should ha’ been there as wasn’t, but was carried off 
by t’ gang. T’ frigate as we ’n a’ heard tell on, as lying off 
Hartlepool, got tidings fra’ t’ tender as captured t’ seamen o’ 
Thursday : and t’ Aurora, as they ca’ed her, made off for t’ 
nor’ard; and nine leagues off St. Abb’s Head, t’ Resolution 
thinks she were, she’ see’d t’ frigate, and knowed by her 
build she were a man-o’-war, and guessed she were bound 
on king’s kidnapping. I seen t’ wounded man mysen wi’ my 
own eyes ; and he’ll live ! he’ll live ! Niver a man died yet, 
wi’ such a strong purpose o’ vengeance in him. He could 
barely speak, for he were badly shot ; but his colour coome 
and went, as t’ master’s mate an’ t’ captain telled me and 
some others how t’ Auroi'a fired at ’em and how t’ innocent 
whaler hoisted her colours, but afore they were fairly run up, 

56 


Story of the Press-gang 

another shot coome close in t’ shrouds, and then t’ Green- 
land ship, being t’ windward, bore down on t’ frigate ; but, as 
they knew she were an oud fox, and bent on mischief, Kinraid 
(that’s he who lies a-dying, only he’ll noane die, a’se bound), 
the specksioneer, bade t’ men go down between decks, and 
fasten t’ hatches well, and he’d stand guard, he an’ captain, 
and t’ oud master’s mate, being left upo’ deck for t’ give a 
welcome just skin-deep tot’ boat’s crew fra’ t’ Aurora, as they 
could see coming t’wards them o’er t’ watter, wi’ their reg’lar 
man-o’-war’s rowing ” 

“ Damn ’em ! ” said Daniel in soliloquy, and under his 
breath. 

Sylvia stood, poising her iron, and listening eagerly, 
afraid to give Donkin the hot iron for fear of interrupting 
the narrative, unwilling to put it into the fire again, because 
that action would perchance remind him of his work, which 
now the tailor had forgotten, so eager was he in telling his 
story. 

“ Well ! they coome on over t’ watters wi’ great bounds, 
and up t’ sides they coome like locusts, all armed men ; an’ 
t’ captain says he saw Kinraid hide away his whaling-knife 
under some tarpaulin’ ; and he knew he meant mischief, an’ 
he would no more ha’ stopped him wi’ a word nor he would 
ha’ stopped him fra’ killing a whale. And when t’ Aurora's 
men were aboard, one on ’em runs to t’ helm ; and at that 
t’ captain says, he felt as if his wife were kissed afore his 
face ; but says he, ‘ I bethought me on t’ men as were shut 
up below hatches, an’ I remembered t’ folk at Monkshaven 
as were looking out for us even then ; an’ I said to mysel’, I 
would speak fair as long as I could, more by token o’ the 
whaling-knife, as I could see glinting bright under t’ black 
tarpaulin.’ So he spoke quite fair and civil though he see’d 
they was nearing t’ Aurora, and t’ Aurora was nearing them. 
Then t’ navy captain hailed him tho’ t’ trumpet, wi’ a great 
rough blast, and, says he, ‘ Order your men. to come on deck.' 
And t’ captain of t’ whaler says, his men cried up from 
under t’ hatches as they’d niver be gi’en up wi’out bloodshed ; 

57 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

and he sees Kinraid take out his pistol, and look well to t’ 
priming ; so he says to t’ navy captain, ‘ We’re protected 
Greenland-men, and you have no right t’ meddle wi’ us.’ 
But t’ navy captain only bellows t’ more, ‘ Order your men t’ 
come on deck. If they won’t obey you, and you have lost 
the command of your vessel, I reckon you’re in a state of 
mutiny, and you may come aboard t’ Aurora and such men 
as are willing t’ follow you ; and I’ll fire inf the rest.’ Yo’ 
see, that were f depth o’ the man : he were for pretending 
and pretexting as f captain could na manage his own ship, 
and as he’d help him. But our Greenland captain were 
noane so poor-spirited, and says he, ‘ She’s full of oil, and 
I ware you of consequences if you fire into her. Anyhow, 
pirate or no pirate ’ (for f word pirate stuck in his gizzard), 
‘ I’m a honest Monkshaven man, an’ I come fra’ a land 
where there’s great icebergs and many a deadly danger, but 
niver a press-gang, thank God ! and that’s what you are, I 
reckon.’ Them’s the words he told me, but whether he 
spoke ’em out so bold at f time, I’se not so sure; they were 
in his mind for f speak, only maybe prudence got f better 
on him ; for he said he prayed i’ his heart to bring his cargo 
safe to f owners, come what might. Well f Aurora's men 
aboard f Good Fortune cried out, ‘ might they fire down f 
hatches, and bring f men out that a way ? ’ and then f 
specksioneer, he speaks, an’ he says he stands ower f hatches, 
and he has two good pistols, an’ summut besides, and he 
don’t care for his life, bein’ a bachelor, but all below are 
married men, yo’ see, and he’ll put an end to f first two 
chaps as come near f hatches. An’ they say he picked two 
off as made for f come near, and then just as he were stoop- 
ing for f whaling-knife, an’ it’s as big as a sickle ” 

“ Teach folk as don’t know a whaling-knife,” cried Daniel. 
“ I were a Greenland- man mysel’.” 

“ They shot him through f side, and dizzied him, and 
kicked him aside for dead ; and fired down f hatches, and killed 
one man, and disabled two, and then f rest cried for quarter 
— for life is sweet, e’en aboard a king’s ship ; and f Aurora 

58 


Story of the Press-gang 

carried ’em off, wounded men, an’ able men, an’ all : leaving 
Kinraid for dead, as wasn’t dead, and Darley for dead, as 
was dead, an’ t’ captain and master’s mate as were too old 
for work ; and t’ captain, as loves Kinraid like a brother, 
poured rum down his throat, and bandaged him up, and has 
sent for t’ first doctor in Monkshaven for to get t’ slugs out ; 
for they say there’s niver such a harpooner in a’ t’ Green- 
land seas ; an’ I can speak fra’ my own seeing he’s a fine 
young fellow where he lies theere, all stark and wan for 
weakness and loss o’ blood. But Barley’s dead as a door- 
nail ; and there’s to be such a burying of him as niver was 
seen afore i’ Monkshaven, come Sunday. And now gi’ us t’ 
iron, wench, and let’s lose no more time a-talking.” 

“It’s noane loss o’ time,” said Daniel, moving himself 
heavily in his chair, to feel how helpless he was once more. 
“If a were as young as once a were — nay, lad, if a had na 
these sore rheumatics, now — a reckon as t’ press-gang ’ud 
find out as ’t shouldn’t do such things for nothing. Bless 
thee, man ! it’s waur nor i’ my youth i’ t’ Ameriky war, and 
then ’t were bad enough.” 

“ And Kinraid ? ” said Sylvia, drawing a long breath, 
after the effort of realizing it all; her cheeks had flushed 
up, and her eyes had glittered during the progress of the 
tale. 

“Oh! he’ll do. He’ll not die. Life’s stuff is in him 
yet.” 

“ He’ll be Molly Corney’s cousin, I reckon,” said Sylvia, 
bethinking her with a blush of Molly Corney’s implication 
that he was more than a cousin to her, and immediately 
longing to go off and see Molly, and hear all the little details 
which women do not think it beneath them to give to women. 
From that time Sylvia’s little heart was bent on this purpose. 
But it was not one to be openly avowed even to herself. 
She only wanted sadly to see Molly, and she almost believed 
herself that it was to consult her about the fashion of her 
cloak, which Donkin was to cut out, and which she was to 
make under his directions ; at any rate, this was the reason 

59 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

she gave to her mother when the day’s work was done, and 
a fine gleam came out upon the pale and watery sky towards 
evening. 


CHAPTEE VI 

THE SAILOE’S FUNEEAL 

Moss Beow, the Corneys’ house, was but a disorderly, com- 
fortless place. You had to cross a dirty farm-yard, all 
puddles and dungheaps, on stepping-stones, to get to the 
door of the house-place. That great room itself was sure to 
have clothes hanging to dry at the fire, whatever day of the 
week it was ; some one of the large, irregular family having 
had what is called in the district a “dab- wash” of a few 
articles, forgotten on the regular day. And sometimes these 
articles lay in their dirty state in the untidy kitchen, out of 
which a room, half parlour, half bedroom, opened on one 
side, and a dairy, the only clean place in the house, at the 
opposite. In face of you, as you entered the door, was the 
entrance to the working-kitchen, or scullery. Still, in spite 
of disorder like this, there was a well-to-do aspect about the 
place ; the Corneys were rich in their way, in flocks and 
herds as well as in children ; and to them neither dirt nor 
the perpetual bustle arising from ill-ordered work detracted 
from comfort. They were all of an easy, good-tempered 
nature ; Mrs. Corney and her daughters gave every one a 
welcome at whatever time of the day they came, and would 
just as soon sit down for a gossip at ten o’clock in the 
morning, as at five in the evening, though at the former time 
the house-place was full of work of various kinds which 
ought to be got out of hand and done with ; while the latter 
hour was towards the end of the day, when farmers’ wives 
and daughters were usually — “ cleaned ” was the word then, 
“dressed” is that in vogue now. Of course in such a 

6o 


The Sailor’s Funeral 

household as this Sylvia was sure to be gladly received. She 
was young, and pretty, and bright, and brought a fresh breeze 
of pleasant air about her as her appropriate atmosphere. And 
besides. Bell Hobson held her head so high that visits from 
her daughter were rather esteemed as a favour, for it was 
not everywhere that Sylvia was allowed to go. 

“ Sit yo’ down, sit yo’ down ! ” cried Dame Corney, dust- 
ing a chair with her apron ; “a reckon Molly ’ll be in i’ no 
time. She’s nobbut gone in’t t’ orchard, to see if she can 
find windfalls enough for t’ make a pie or two for t’ lads. 
They like nowt so weel for supper as apple-pies sweetened 
wi’ treacle, crust stout and leathery, as stands chewing, and 
we hannot getten in our apples yet.” 

“ If Molly is in t’ orchard, I’ll go find her,” said Sylvia. 

“ Well ! yo’ lasses will have your conks ” (private talks) 
“a know; secrets ’bout sweethearts and such like,” said 
Mrs. Corney, with a knowing look, which made Sylvia hate 
her for the moment. “ A’ve not forgotten as a were young 
mysen. Tak’ care ; there’s a pool o’ mucky water just out- 
side t’ back-door.” 

But Sylvia was half-way across the back-yard — worse, if 
possible, than the front as to the condition in which it was 
kept — and had passed through the little gate into the orchard. 
It was full of old, gnarled apple-trees, their trunks covered 
with grey lichen, in which the cunning chaffinch built her 
nest in spring-time. The cankered branches remained on 
the trees, and added to the knotted interweaving overhead, 
if they did not to the productiveness ; the grass grew in long 
tufts, and was wet and tangled under foot. There was a 
tolerable crop of rosy apples still hanging on the grey old 
trees, and here and there they showed ruddy in the green 
bosses of untrimmed grass. Why the fruit was not gathered, 
as it was evidently ripe, would have puzzled any one not 
acquainted with the Corney family to say ; but to them it 
was always a maxim in practice, if not in precept, “ Do 
nothing to-day that you can put off till to-morrow ” ; and 
accordingly the apples dropped from the trees at any httle 

6i 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

gust of wind, and lay rotting on the ground until the “ lads ” 
wanted a supply of pies for supper. 

Molly saw Sylvia, and came quickly across the orchard to 
meet her, catching her feet in knots of grass as she hurried 
along. 

“ Well, lass ! ” said she, “ who’d ha’ thought o’ seeing yo’ 
such a day as it has been ? ” 

“ But it’s cleared up now beautiful,” said Sylvia, looking 
up at the soft evening sky, to be seen through the apple 
boughs. It was of a tender, delicate grey, with the faint 
warmth of a promising sunset tinging it with a pink atmo- 
sphere. “ Eain is over and gone, and I wanted to know 
how my cloak is to be made; for Donkin’s working at 
our house, and I wanted to know all about — the news, yo’ 
know.” 

“ What news ? ” asked Molly ; for she had heard of the 
affair between the Good Fortune and the Aurora some days 
before, and, to tell the truth, it had rather passed out of her 
head just at this moment. 

“ Hannot yo’ heard all about t’ press-gang and t’ whaler, 
and t’ great fight, and Kinraid, as is your cousin, acting so 
brave and grand, and lying On his death-bed now ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” said Molly, enlightened as to Sylvia’s “ news,” 
and half-surprised at the vehemence with which the little 
creature spoke ; “ yes ; a heerd that days ago. But Charley’s 
noane on his death-bed, he’s a deal better ; an’ mother says 
as he’s to be moved up here next week for nursin’ and better 
air nor he gets i’ t’ town yonder.” 

“ Oh ! I am so glad,” said Sylvia, with all her heart. “ I 
thought he’d maybe die, and I should never see him.” 

“ A’ll promise yo’ shall see him; that’s t’ say if a’ goes 
on well, for he’s getten an ugly hurt. Mother says as there’s 
four blue marks on his side as’ll last him his life, an’ t’ 
doctor fears bleeding i’ his inside ; and then he’ll drop down 
dead when no one looks for ’t.” 

“ But you said he was better,” said Sylvia, blanching a 
little at this account. 


62 


The Sailor’s Funeral 

“ Ah, he’s better ; but life’s uncertain, special after gun- 
shot wounds.” 

“ He acted very fine,” said Sylvia, meditating. 

“ A allays knowed he would. Many’s the time a’ve heerd 
him say ‘ honour bright,’ and now he’s shown how bright 
his is.” 

Molly did not speak sentimentally, but with a kind of 
proprietorship in Kinraid’s honour, which confirmed Sylvia in 
her previous idea of a mutual attachment between her and 
her cousin. Considering this notion, she was a little sur- 
prised at Molly’s next speech. 

“ An’ about yer cloak, are you for a hood or a cape ? a 
reckon that’s the question.” 

“ Oh, I don’t care ! tell me more about Kinraid. Do yo’ 
really think he’ll get better? ” 

“ Dear ! how t’ lass takes on about him. A’ll tell him 
what a deal of interest a young woman taks i’ him ! ” 

From that time Sylvia never asked another question 
about him. In a somewhat dry and altered tone, she said, 
after a little pause — 

“ I think on a hood. What do you say to it ? ” 

“ Well ; hoods is a bit old-fashioned, to my mind. If ’t 
were mine, I’d have a cape cut i’ three points, one to tie on 
each shoulder, and one to dip down handsome behind. But 
let yo’ an’ me go to Monkshaven church o’ Sunday, and see 
Measter Fishburn’s daughters, as has their things made i’ 
York, and notice a bit how they’re made. We needn’t do it 
i’ church ; but just scan ’em o’er i’ t’ churchyard, and there’ll 
be no harm done. Besides, there’s to be this grand burrjdn’ 
o’ t’ man t’ press-gang shot, and ’t will be like killing two 
birds at once.” 

“ I should like to go,” said Sylvia. “ I feel so sorry like 
for the poor sailors shot down and kidnapped just as they 
was coming home, as we see’d ’em o’ Thursday last. I’ll 
ask mother if she’ll let me go.” 

“ Ay, do. I know my mother ’ll let me, if she doesn’t go 
hersen ; for it ’ll be a sight to see and to speak on for many 

63 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

a long year, after what I’ve heerd. And Miss Fishburns is 
sure to be tbeere ; so I’d just get Donkin to cut out cloak 
itsel’, and keep back yer mind fra’ fixing o’ either cape or 
hood till Sunday’s turn’d.” 

“Will yo’ set me part o’ t’ way home ? ” said Sylvia, 
seeing the dying daylight become more and more crimson 
through the blackening trees. 

“ No, I can’t. A should like it well enough ; but some- 
how there’s a deal o’ work to be done yet, for t’ hours slip 
through one’s fingers so as there’s no knowing. Mind yo’, 
then, o’ Sunday. A’ll be at t’ stile one o’clock punctual; 
and we’ll go slowly into t’ town, and look about us as we go, 
and see folks’ dresses, and go to t’ church, and say wer 
prayers, and come out and have a look at t’ funeral.” 

And with this programme of proceedings settled for the 
following Sunday, the girls, whom neighbourhood and parity 
of age had forced into some measure of friendship, parted for 
the time. 

Sylvia hastened home, feeling as if she had been absent 
long ; her mother stood on the little knoll at the side of the 
house watching for her, with her hand shading her eyes from 
the low rays of the setting sun ; but, as soon as she saw her 
daughter in the distance, she returned to her work, whatever 
that might be. She was not a woman of many words, or of 
much demonstration ; few observers would have guessed how 
much she loved her child ; but Sylvia, without any reasoning 
or observation, instinctively knew that her mother’s heart 
was bound up in her. 

Her father and Donkin were going on much as when she 
had left them : talking and disputing, the one compelled to 
be idle, the other stitching away as fast as he talked. They 
seemed as if they had never missed Sylvia ; no more did her 
mother for that matter, for she was busy and absorbed in her 
afternoon dairy- work to all appearance. But Sylvia had 
noted the watching not three minutes before ; and many a 
time in her after-life, when no one cared much for her out- 
goings and in-comings, the straight, upright figure of her 

64 


The Sailor’s Funeral 

mother, fronting the setting sun, but searching through its 
blinding rays for a sight of her child, rose up like a sudden- 
seen picture, the remembrance of which smote Sylvia to the 
heart with a sense of a lost blessing, not duly valued while 
possessed. 

“ Well, feyther, and how’s a’ wi’ you ? ” asked Sylvia, 
going to the side of his chair, and laying her hand on his 
shoulder. 

“ Eh ! harkee till this lass o’ mine ! She thinks as, because 
she’s gone galraverging, I maun ha’ missed her and be 
ailing. Why, lass, Donkin and me has had t’ most sensible 
talk a’ve had this many a day. A’ve gi’en him a vast o’ 
knowledge, and he’s done me a power o’ good. Please God, 
to-morrow a’ll tak’ a start at walking, if t’ weather holds up.” 

“ Ay ! ” said Donkin, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice ; 
“ feyther and me has settled many puzzles ; it’s been a loss 
to Government as they hannot been here for profiting by our 
wisdom. We’ve done away wi’ taxes and press-gangs, and 
many a plague, and beaten t’ French — i’ our own minds, 
that’s to say.” 

“ It’s a wonder t’ me as those Lunnon folks can’t see 
things clear,” said Daniel, all in good faith. 

Sylvia did not quite understand the state of things as re- 
garded politics and taxes — and politics and taxes were all one 
in her mind, it must be confessed — but she saw that her 
innocent little scheme of giving her father the change of 
society afforded by Donkin’s coming had answered ; and in 
the gladness of her heart she went out and ran round the 
corner of the house to find Kester, and obtain from him that 
sympathy in her success which she dared not ask from her 
mother. 

“ Kester, Kester, lad ! ” said she, in a loud whisper; but 
Kester was suppering the horses, and in the clamp of their 
feet on the round stable pavement, he did not hear her at 
first. She went a little farther into the stable. “ Kester I 
he’s a vast better ; he’ll go out to-morrow ; it’s all Donkin’s 
doing. I’m beholden to thee for fetching him, and I’ll try 

65 F 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

and spare thee waistcoat fronts out o’ t’ stuff for my new red 
cloak. Thou’ll like that, Kester, won’t ta ? ” 

Kester took the notion in slowly, and weighed it. 

“ Na, lass,” said he deliberately, after a pause. “ A could 
na’ bear to see thee wi’ thy cloak scrimpit. A like to see a 
wench look bonny and smart, an’ a tak’ a kind o’ pride in 
thee, an’ should be a’ most as much hurt i’ my mind to see 
thee i’ a pinched cloak as if old Moll’s tail here were docked 
too short. Na, lass, a’se niver got a mirroring glass for t’ 
see mysen in, so what’s waistcoats to me ? Keep thy stuff 
to thysen, theere’s a good wench ; but a’se main and glad 
about t’ measter. Place isn’t like itsen when he’s shut up 
and cranky.” 

He took up a wisp of straw and began rubbing down the 
old mare, and hissing over his work as if he wished to 
consider the conversation as ended. And Sylvia, who had 
strung herself up in a momentary fervour of gratitude to 
make the generous offer, was not sorry to have it refused, 
and went back planning what kindness she could show to 
Kester without its involving so much sacrifice to herself. 
For giving waistcoat fronts to him would deprive her of the 
pleasant power of selecting a fashionable pattern in Monks- 
haven churchyard next Sunday. 

That wished-for day seemed long a-coming, as wished-for 
days most frequently do. Her father got better by slow 
degrees, and her mother was pleased by the tailor’s good 
pieces of work ; showing the neatly-placed patches with as 
much pride as many matrons take in new clothes now-a-days. 
And the weather cleared up into a dim kind of autumnal 
fineness, into anything but an Indian summer as far as 
regarded gorgeousness of colouring; for on that coast the 
mists and sea fogs early spoil the brilliancy of the foliage. 
Yet, perhaps, the more did the silvery greys and browns of 
the inland scenery conduce to the tranquillity of the time, — 
the time of peace and rest before the fierce and stormy 
winter comes on. It seems a time for gathering up human 

66 


The Sailor’s Funeral 

forces to encounter the coming severity, as well as of storing 
up the produce of harvest for the needs of winter. Old 
people turn out and sun themselves in that calm St. Martin’s 
summer, without fear of “ the heart o’ th’ sun, or the coming 
winter’s rages ” ; and we may read in their pensive, dreamy 
eyes that they are weaning themselves away from the earth, 
which probably many may never see dressed in her summer 
glory again. 

Many such old people set out betimes, on the Sunday 
afternoon to which Sylvia had been so looking forward, to 
scale the long flights of stone steps — worn by the feet of 
many generations — which led up to the parish church, placed 
on a height above the town, on a great, green area at the 
summit of the cliff, which was the angle where the river and 
the sea met, and so overlooking both the basy, crowded little 
town, the port, the shipping, and the bar on the one hand, 
and the wide, ilhmitable, tranquil sea on the other — types 
of life and eternity. It was a good situation for that church. 
Homeward-bound sailors caught sight of the tower of St. 
Nicholas, the first land object of all. They who went forth 
upon the great deep might carry solemn thoughts with them 
of the words they had heard there : not conscious thoughts, 
perhaps, rather a distinct if dim conviction that buying and 
selling, eating and marrying, even life and death, were not 
all the realities in existence. Nor were the words that came 
up to their remembrance words of sermons preached there, 
however impressive. The sailors mostly slept through the 
sermons ; unless, indeed, there were incidents such as were 
involved in what were called “ funeral discourses ” to be 
narrated. They did not recognise their daily faults or 
temptations under the grand aliases befitting their appearance 
from a preacher’s mouth. But they knew the old, oft-repeated 
words praying for deliverance from the famihar dangers of 
lightning and tempest, from battle, murder, and sudden 
death ; and nearly every man was aware that he left behind 
him some one who would watch for the prayer for the 
preservation of those who travel by land or by water, and 

67 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

think of him, as God-protected the more for the earnestness 
of the response then given. 

There, too, lay the dead of many generations; for St. 
Nicholas had been the parish church ever since Monkshaven 
was a town, and the large churchyard was rich in the dead. 
Masters, mariners, shipowners, seamen : it seemed strange 
how few other trades were represented in that great plain, so 
full of upright gravestones. Here and there was a memorial 
stone, placed by some survivor of a large family, most of 
whom perished at sea ; — “ Supposed to have perished in the 
Greenland seas ” ; “ Shipwrecked in the Baltic ” ; “ Drowned 
off the coast of Iceland ”. There was a strange sensation, as 
if the cold sea- winds must bring with them the dim phantoms 
of those lost sailors, who had died far from their homes, and 
from the hallowed ground where their fathers lay. 

Each flight of steps up to this churchyard ended in a 
small, flat space, on which a wooden seat was placed. On 
this particular Sunday, all these seats were filled by aged 
people, breathless with the unusual exertion of climbing. 
You could see the church stair, as it was called, from nearly 
every part of the town; and the figures of the numerous 
climbers, diminished by distance, looked like a busy ant-hill, 
long before the bell began to ring for afternoon service. All 
who could manage it had put on a bit of black in token of 
mourning; it might be very little — an old ribbon, a rusty 
piece of crape; but some sign of mourning was shown by 
every one down to the little child in its mother’s arms, that 
innocently clutched the piece of rosemary to be thrown into 
the grave “ for remembrance.” Darley, the seaman shot by 
the press-gang, nine leagues off St. Abb’s Head, was to be 
buried to-day, at the accustomed time for the funerals of the 
poorer classes, directly after evening service ; and there were 
only the sick and their nurse-tenders who did not come forth 
to show their feeling for the man whom they looked upon as 
murdered. The crowd of vessels in harbour bore their flags 
half-mast high, and the crews were making their way through 
the High Street. The gentlefolk of Monkshaven, full of 

68 


The Sailor’s Funeral 

indignation at this interference with their ships, full of 
sympathy with the family who had lost their son and brother 
almost within sight of his home, came in unusual numbers — 
no lack of patterns for Sylvia ; but her thoughts were far 
otherwise and more suitably occupied. The unwonted 
sternness and solemnity visible on the countenances of all 
whom she met awed and affected her. She did not speak 
in reply to Molly’s remarks on the dress or appearance of 
those who struck her. She felt as if these speeches jarred 
on her, and annoyed her almost to irritation ; yet Molly had 
come all the way to Monkshaven Church in her service, and 
deserved forbearance accordingly. The two mounted the 
steps alongside of many people ; few words were exchanged, 
even at the breathing-places, so often the little centres of 
gossip. Looking over the sea, there was not a sail to be 
seen ; it seemed bared of life, as if to be in serious harmony 
with what was going on inland. 

The church was of old Norman architecture; low and 
massive outside : inside, of vast space, only a quarter of 
which was filled on ordinary Sundays. The walls were dis- 
figured by numerous tablets of black and white marble inter- 
mixed, and the unusual ornamentation of that style of 
memorial as erected in the last century, of weeping- willows, 
urns, and drooping figures, with here and there a ship in full 
sail, or an anchor, where the seafaring idea prevalent 
through the place had launched out into a little originality. 
There was no woodwork : the church had been stripped of 
that, most probably when the neighbouring monastery had 
been destroyed. There were large square pews, lined with 
green baize, with the names of the families of the most 
flourishing shipowners painted white on the doors ; there 
were pews, not so large, and not lined at all, for the 
farmers and shopkeepers of the parish ; and numerous heavy 
oaken benches, which, by the united efforts of several men, 
might be brought within ear-shot of the pulpit. These were 
being removed into the most convenient situations when 
Molly and Sylvia entered the church ; and, after two or 

69 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

three whispered sentences, they took their seats on one of 
these. 

The vicar of . Monkshaven was a kindly, peaceable, old 
man, hating strife and troubled waters above everything. 
He was a vehement Tory in theory, as became his cloth in 
those days. lie had two bugbears to fear — the French and 
the Dissenters. It was difficult to say of which he had the 
worst opinion and the most intense dread. Perhaps he 
hated the Dissenters most, because they came nearer in con- 
tact with him than the French ; besides, the French had the 
excuse of being Papists, while the Dissenters might have 
belonged to the Church of England, if they had not been 
utterly depraved. Yet in practice Dr. Wilson did not object 
to dine with Mr. Fishburn, who was a personal friend and 
follower of Wesley; but then, as the doctor would say, 
“ Wesley was an Oxford man, and that makes him a gentle- 
man ; and he was an ordained minister of the Church of 
England, so that grace can never depart from him.” But I 
do not know what excuse he would have alleged for sending 
broth and vegetables to old Ealph Thompson, a rabid Inde- 
pendent, who had been given to abusing the Church and the 
vicar from a Dissenting pulpit, as long as ever he could 
mount the stairs. However, that inconsistency between Dr. 
Wilson’s theories and practice was not generally known in 
Monkshaven ; so we have nothing to do with it. 

Dr. Wilson had had a very difficult part to play, and a 
still more difficult sermon to write, during this last week. 
The Darley who had been killed was the son of the vicar’s 
gardener, and Dr. Wilson’s sympathies as a man had been 
all on the bereaved father’s side. But then he had re- 
ceived, as the oldest magistrate in the neighbourhood, a 
letter from the captain of the Aurora, explanatory and 
exculpatory. Darley had been resisting the orders of an 
officer in his Majesty’s service. What would become of 
due subordination and loyalty, and the interests of the 
service, and the chances of beating those confounded 
French, if such conduct as Darley’s was to be encouraged ? 

70 


The Sailor’s Funeral 

(Poor Darley ! he was past all evil effects of human en- 
couragement now ! ) 

So the vicar mumbled hastily over a sermon on the text, 
“ In the midst of life we are in death,” which might have 
done as well for a baby cut off in a convulsion-fit as for the 
strong man shot down with all his eager blood hot within 
him, by men as hot-blooded as himself. But once when the 
old doctor’s eye caught the up-tumed, straining gaze of the 
father Darley, seeking with all his soul to find a grain of 
holy comfort in the chaff of words, his conscience smote him. 
Had he nothing to say that should calm anger and revenge 
with spiritual power ? no breath of the Comforter to soothe 
repining into resignation ? But again the discord between 
the laws of man and the laws of Christ stood before him ; 
and he gave up the attempt to do more than he was doing, 
as beyond his power. Though the hearers went away as full 
of anger as when they had entered the church, and some with 
a dull feeling of disappointment as to what they had got there, 
yet no one felt anything but kindly towards the old vicar. 
His simple, happy life led amongst them for forty years, and 
open to all men in its daily course ; his sweet-tempered, 
cordial ways, his practical kindness, made him beloved by 
all ; and neither he nor they thought much or cared much 
for admiration of his talents. Eespect for his office was all 
the respect he thought of ; and that was conceded to him 
from old traditional and hereditary association. In looking 
back to the last century, it appears curious to see how little 
our ancestors had the power of putting two things together, 
and perceiving either the discord or harmony thus produced. 
Is it because we are farther off from those times, and have, 
consequently, a greater range of vision ? Will our descen- 
dants have a wonder about us, such as we have about the 
inconsistency of our forefathers, or a surprise at our blindness 
that we do not perceive that, holding such and such opinions, 
our course of action must be so and so, or that the logical con- 
sequence of particular opinions must be convictions which at 
present we hold in abhorrence ? It seems puzzling to look 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

back on men such as our vicar, who almost held the doctrine 
that the King could do no wrong, yet were ever ready to talk 
of the glorious Kevolution, and to abuse the Stuarts for 
having entertained the same doctrine, and tried to put it in 
practice. But such discrepancies ran through good men’s 
lives in those days. It is well for us that we live at the 
present time, when everybody is logical and consistent. This 
little discussion must be taken in place of Dr. Wilson’s 
sermon, of which no one could remember more than the text 
half-an-hour after it was delivered. Even the doctor himself 
had the recollection of the words he had uttered swept out of 
his mind, as, having doffed his gown and donned his surplice, 
he came out of the dusk of his vestry and went to the church- 
door, looking into the broad light which came upon the plain 
of the churchyard on the cliffs ; for the sun had not yet set, 
and the pale moon was slowly rising through the silvery mist 
that obscured the distant moors. There was a thick, dense 
crowd, all still and silent, looking away from the church and 
the vicar, who awaited the bringing of the dead. They were 
watching the slow, black line winding up the long steps, 
resting their heavy burden here and there, standing in silent 
groups at each landing-place ; now lost to sight as a piece 
of broken, overhanging ground intervened, now emerging 
suddenly nearer ; and overhead the great church bell, with 
its mediaeval inscription, familiar to the vicar, if to no one 
else who heard it, 

“ I to the grave do summon all,” 

kept on its heavy, booming monotone, with which no other 
sound from land or sea, near or distant, intermingled, except 
the cackle of the geese on some far-away farm on the 
moors, as they were coming home to roost; and that one 
noise from so great a distance seemed only to deepen 
the stillness. Then there was a little movement in the 
crowd; a little pushing from side to side, to make a path 
for the corpse and its bearers — an aggregate of the frag- 
ments of room. 


72 


The Sailor’s Funeral 

With bent heads and spent strength, those who carried 
the coffin moved on ; behind came the poor old gardener, a 
brown, black, funeral cloak thrown over his homely dress, 
and supporting his wife with steps scarcely less feeble than 
her own. He had come to church that afternoon, with a 
promise to her that he would return to lead her to the funeral 
of her firstborn ; for he felt in his sore, perplexed heart, full 
of indignation and dumb anger, as if he must go and hear 
something which should exorcise the unwonted longing for 
revenge that disturbed his grief, and made him conscious of 
that great blank of consolation which faithlessness produces. 
And for the time he was faithless. How came God to permit 
such cruel injustice of, man? Permitting it. He could not 
be good. Then what was life, and what was death, but woe 
and despair ? The beautiful solemn words of the ritual had 
done him good, and restored much of his faith. Though he 
could not understand why such sorrow had befallen him any 
more than before, he had come back to something of his 
childlike trust ; he kept saying to himself in a whisper, as 
he mounted the weary steps, “ it is the Lord’s doing ” ; and 
the repetition sbothed him unspeakably. Behind this old 
couple followed their children, grown men and women, come 
from distant place or farm-house service, the servants at the 
vicarage, and many a neighbour, anxious to show their 
sympathy ; while most of the sailors from the crews of the 
vessels in port joined in procession, and followed the dead 
body into the church. 

There was too great a crowd immediately within the door 
for Sylvia and Molly to go in again ; and they accordingly 
betook themselves to the place where the deep grave was 
waiting wide and hungry, to receive its dead. There, leaning 
against the headstones all around, were many standing — 
looking over the broad and placid sea, and turned to the soft 
salt air which blew on their hot eyes and rigid faces ; for no 
one spoke, of all that number. They were thinking of the 
violent death of him over whom the solemn words were now 
being said in the grey, old church, scarcely out of their 

73 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

hearing, had not the sound been broken by the measured 
lapping of the tide far beneath. 

Suddenly every one looked round towards the path from 
the churchyard steps. Two sailors were supporting a 
ghastly figure that, with feeble motions, was drawing near 
the open grave. 

“ It’s t’ specksioneer as tried to save him ! It’s him as 
was left for dead \ ” the people murmured round. 

“It’s Charley Kinraid, as I’m a sinner I ” said Molly, 
starting forward to greet her cousin. 

But, as he came on, she saw that all his strength was 
needed for the mere action of walking. The sailors, in their 
strong sympathy, had yielded to his, earnest entreaty, and 
carried him up the steps, in order that he might see the last 
of his messmate. They placed him near the grave, resting 
against a stone ; and he was hardly there before the vicar 
came forth, and the great crowd poured out of the church, 
following the body to the grave. 

Sylvia was so much wrapt up in the solemnity of the 
occasion, that she had no thought to spare at the first 
moment for the pale and haggard figure opposite ; much less 
was she aware of her cousin Philip, who now, singling her 
out for the first time from among the crowd, pressed to her 
side, with an intention of companionship and protection. 

As the service went on, ill- checked sobs rose from behind 
the two girls who were among the foremost in the crowd, 
and by-and-by the cry and the wail became general. Sylvia’s 
tears rained down her face, and her distress became so evi- 
dent that it attracted the attention of many in that inner 
circle. Among others who noticed it, the specksioneer’s 
hollow eyes were caught by the sight of the innocent, bloom- 
ing, childlike face opposite to him, and he wondered if she 
were a relation; yet, seeing that she bore no badge of 
mourning, he rather concluded that she must have been a 
sweetheart of the dead man. 

And now all was over: the rattle of the gravel on the 
cofi&n; the last long, lingering look of friends and lovers; 

74 


The Sailor’s Funeral 

the rosemary sprigs had been cast down by all who were 
fortunate enough to have brought them — and oh ! how much 
Sylvia wished she had remembered this last act of respect — ■ 
and slowly the outer rim of the crowd began to slacken and 
disappear. 

Now Philip spoke to Sylvia. 

“ I never dreamt of seeing you here. I thought my aunt 
always went to Kirk Moorside.” 

“ I came with Molly Corney,” said Sylvia. “ Mother is 
staying at home with feyther.” 

“ How’s his rheumatics ? ” asked Philip. 

But at the same moment Molly took hold of Sylvia’s 
hand, and said — 

“ A want t’ get round and speak to Charley. Mother’ll 
be main and glad to hear as he’s getten out ; though, for 
sure, he looks as though he’d ha’ been better in ’s bed. 
Come, Sylvia.” 

And Philip, fain to keep with Sylvia, had to follow the 
two girls close up to the specksioneer, who was preparing for 
his slow, laborious walk back to his lodgings. He stopped 
on seeing his cousin. 

“ Well, Molly,” said he faintly, putting out his hand, but 
his eye passing her face to look at Sylvia in the background, 
her tear-stained face full of shy admiration of the nearest 
approach to a hero she had ever seen. 

“ Well, Charley, a niver was so taken aback as when a 
saw yo’ theere, like a ghost, a-standin’ agin a gravestone. 
How white and wan yo’ do look ! ” 

“ Ay ! ” said he wearily, “ wan and weak enough.” 

“But I hope you’re getting better, sir,” said Sylvia- in a 
low voice, longing to speak to him, and yet wondering at her 
own temerity. 

“ Thank you, my lass. I’m o’er th’ worst.” 

He sighed heavily. 

Philip now spoke. 

“ We’re doing him no kindness a-keeping him standing 
here i’ t’ night-fall, and him so tired.” And he made as 

75 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

though he would turn away. Kinraid’s two sailor friends 
backed up Philip’s words with such urgency, that, somehow, 
Sylvia thought they had been to blame in speaking to him, 
and blushed excessively with the idea. 

“ Yo’ll come and be nursed at Moss Brow, Charley,” said 
Molly ; and Sylvia dropped her little maidenly curtsey, and 
said, “Good-bye;” and went away, wondering how Molly 
could talk so freely to such a hero ; but then, to be sure, he 
was a cousin, and probably a sweetheart, and that would 
make a great deal of difference, of course. 

Meanwhile her own cousin kept close by her side. 


CHAPTEE VII 

T^TE-A-TETE — THE WILL 

“ And now tell me all about t’ folk at home,” said Philip, 
evidently preparing to walk back with the girls. He generally 
came to Haytersbank every Sunday afternoon; so Sylvia 
knew what she had to expect the moment she became aware 
of his neighbourhood in the churchyard. 

“ My feyther’s been sadly troubled with his rheumatics 
this week past ; but he’s a vast better now, thank you 
kindly.” Then, addressing herself to Molly, she asked, 
“ Has your cousin a doctor to look after him ? ” 

“ Ay, for sure ! ” said Molly quickly ; for, though she knew 
nothing about the matter, she was determined to suppose 
that her cousin had everything becoming an invalid as well 
as a hero. “ He’s well-to-do, and can afford iverything as 
he needs,” continued she. “ His feyther’s left him money, 
and he were a farmer out i’ Northumberland ; and he’s 
reckoned such a specksioneer as niver, niver was, and gets 
what wage he asks for and a share on every whale he 
harpoons beside.” 


76 


Tete-a-t6te— The Will 

“ I reckon he’ll have to make himself scarce on this coast 
for awhile, at any rate,” said Philip. 

“ An’ what for should he ? ” asked Molly, who never liked 
Philip at the best of times, and now, if he was going to dis- 
parage her cousin in any way, was ready to take up arms 
and do battle. 

“Why, they do say as he fired the shot as has killed 
some o’ the men-o’- war’s men ; and, of course, if he has, he’ll 
have to stand his trial if he’s caught.” 

“ What lies people do say ! ” exclaimed Molly. “ He 
niver killed nought but whales, a’ll be bound ; or, if he did, 
it were all right and proper as he should, when they were 
for stealing him an’ all t’ others, and did kill poor Darley 
as we come fra’ seein’ buried. A suppose, now, yo’re such 
a Quaker that, if some one was to break through fra’ t’ other 
side o’ this dyke, and offer for to murder Sylvia and me, yo’d 
look on wi’ yo’r hands hanging by yo’r side.” 

“ But t’ press-gang had law on their side, and were doing 
nought but what they’d warrant for.” 

“ Th’ tender’s gone away, as if she were ashamed o’ what 
she’d done,” said Sylvia, “ and t’ flag’s down fra’ o’er the 
Eandyvowse. There’ll be no more press-ganging here 
awhile.” 

“ No ; feyther says,” continued Molly, “ as they’ve made 
t’ place too hot t’ hold ’em, coming so strong afore people 
had getten used to their ways o’ catchin’ up poor lads just 
come fra’ t’ Greenland seas. T’ folks ha’ their blood so up 
they’d think no harm o’ fighting ’em i’ t’ streets — ay, and 
o’ killing ’em, too, if they were for using firearms, as t’ 
Aurora's men did.” 

“ Women is so fond o’ bloodshed,” said Philip ; “for t’ 
hear you talk, who’d ha’ thought you’d just come fra’ crying 
ower the grave of a man who was killed by violence ? I 
should ha’ thought you’d seen enough of what sorrow comes 
o’ fighting. Why, them lads o’ t’ Aurora as they say Kinraid 
shot down had fathers and mothers, maybe, a-looking out for 
them to come home.” 


77 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ I don’t think he could ha’ killed them,” said Sylvia ; “ he 
looked so gentle.” 

But Molly did not like this half-and-half view of the case. 

“ A dare say he did kill ’em dead ; he’s not one to do 
things by halves. And a think he served ’em reet, that’s 
what a do.” 

“ Is na’ this Hester, as serves in Foster’s shop ? ” asked 
Sylvia in a low voice, as a young woman came through a stile 
in the stone wall by the roadside, and suddenly appeared 
before them. 

“ Yes,” said Philip. “ Why, Hester, where have you 
been ? ” he asked, as they drew near. 

Hester reddened a little, and then replied, in her slow, 
quiet way— 

“ I’ve been sitting with Betsy Barley — her that is bed- 
ridden. It were lonesome for her when the others were away 
at the burying.” 

And she made as though she would have passed; but 
Sylvia, all her sympathies alive for the relations of the 
murdered man, wanted to ask more questions, and put her 
hand on Hester’s arm to detain her a moment. Hester 
suddenly drew back a little, reddened still more, and then 
replied fully and quietly to all Sylvia asked. 

In the agricultural counties, and among the class to which 
these four persons belonged, there is little analysis of motive 
or comparison of characters and actions, even at this present 
day of enlightenment. Sixty or seventy years ago there was 
still less. I do not mean that amongst thoughtful and serious 
people there was not much reading of such books as Mason 
On Self-Knowledge, and Law’s Serious Call, or that there were 
not the experiences of the Wesleyans, that were related at 
class-meeting for the edification of the hearers. But, taken 
as a general rule, it may be said that few knew what manner 
of men they were, compared to the numbers now who are 
fully conscious of their virtues, qualities, failings, and weak- 
nesses, and who go about comparing others with themselves 
— not in a spirit of Pharisaism and arrogance, but with a 

78 


i 


Tete-a-tete — The Will 

vivid self-consciousness that more than anything else deprives 
characters of freshness and originality. 

To return to the party we left standing on the high-raised 
footway that ran alongside of the hridle-road to Haytersbank. 
Sylvia had leisure in her heart to think “ how good Hester is 
for sitting with the poor, bed-ridden sister of Darley ! ” without 
having a pang of self-depreciation in the comparison of her 
own conduct with that she was capable of so fully appreci- 
ating. She had gone to church for the ends of vanity, and 
remained to the funeral for curiosity and the pleasure of the 
excitement. In this way a modern young lady would have 
condemned herself, and therefore lost the simple, purifying 
pleasure of admiration of another. 

Hester passed onwards, going down the hill towards the 
town. The other three walked slowly on. All were silent for 
a few moments, then Sylvia said — 

“ How good she is ! ” 

And Philip replied with ready warmth — 

“ Yes, she is ; no one knows how good but us, who live in 
the same house wi’ her.” 

“ Her mother is an old Quakeress, bean’t she ? ” Molly 
inquired. 

“ Alice Eose is a Friend, if that is what you mean,” said 
Philip.’ 

“ Well, well ! some folk’s so particular. Is William 
Coulson a Quaker, by which a mean a Friend ? ” 

“ Yes ; they’re all on ’em right-down good folk.” 

“ Deary me ! What a wonder yo’ can speak to such 
sinners as Sylvia and me, after keepin’ company with so much 
goodness ! ” said Molly, who had not yet forgiven Philip for 
doubting Kinraid’s power of killing men. “ Is na’ it, Sylvia ? ” 
But Sylvia was too highly strung for banter. If she had 
not been one of those who went to mock, but remained to 
pray, she had gone to church with the thought of the cloak- 
that-was-to-be uppermost in her mind, and she had come 
down the long, church stair with life and death suddenly 
become real to her mind, the enduring sea and hills forming 

79 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

a contrasting background to the vanishing away of man. 
She was full of a solemn wonder as to the abiding-place of 
the souls of the dead, and a childlike dread lest the number 
of the elect should be accomplished before she was included 
therein. How people could ever be merry again after they 
had been at a funeral, she could not imagine ; so she answered 
gravely, and slightly beside the question : 

“ I wonder, if I was a Friend, if I should be good ? ” 

“ Gi’ me your red cloak, that’s all, when yo’ turn 
Quaker ; they’ll none let thee wear scarlet, so it’ll be of no 
use to thee.” 

“ I think thou’rt good enough as thou art,” said Philip 
tenderly — at least as tenderly as he durst, for he knew by 
experience that it did not do to alarm her girlish coyness. 
Either one speech or the other made Sylvia silent ; neither 
was accordant to her mood of mind, so perhaps both con- 
tributed to her quietness. 

“Folk say William Coulson looks sweet on Hester 
Eose,” said Molly, always up in Monkshaven gossip. It 
was in the form of an assertion, but was said in the tone of 
a question, and as such Philip replied to it. 

“ Yes, I think he likes her a good deal ; but he’s so quiet, 
I never feel sure. John and Jeremiah would like the match, 
I’ve a notion.” 

And now they came to the stile which had filled Philip’s 
eye for some minutes past, though neither of the others had 
perceived they were so near it ; the stile which led to Moss 
Brow from the road into the fields that sloped down to Hay- 
tersbank. Here they would leave Molly, and now would 
begin the delicious Ute-a-tHe walk, which Philip always tried 
to make as lingering as possible. To-day he was anxious to 
show his sympathy with Sylvia, as far as he could read what 
was passing in her mind ; but how was he to guess the 
multitude of tangled thoughts in that unseen receptacle ? A 
resolution to be good, if she could, and always to be thinking 
on death, so that what seemed to her now as simply im- 
possible might come true — that she might “ dread the grave 

8o 


Tete-a-tSte — The Will 

as little as her bed ” ; a wish that Philip were not coming 
home with her ; a wonder if the specksioneer really had 
killed a man, an idea which made her shudder ; yet from the 
awful fascination about it, her imagination was compelled to 
dwell on the tall, gaunt figure, and try to recall the wan 
countenance ; a hatred and desire of revenge on the press- 
gang, so vehement that it sadly militated against her inten- 
tion of trying to be good : all these notions, and wonders, 
and fancies were whirling about in Sylvia’s brain, and at one 
of their promptings she spoke — 

“ How many miles away is t’ Greenland seas ? — I mean, 
how long do they take to reach ? ” 

“ I don’t know ; ten days or a fortnight, or more, maybe. 
I’ll ask.” 

“ Oh ! feyther’ll tell me all about it. He’s been there 
many a time.” 

“ I say, Sylvie ! My aunt said I were to give you lessons 
this winter i’ writing and ciphering. I can begin to come up 
now, two evenings, may-be, a week. T’ shop closes early 
after November comes in.” 

Sylvia did not like learning, and did not want him for her 
teacher ; so she answered, in a dry, little tone — 

“ It’ll use a deal o’ candle-light ; mother’ll not like that. 
I can’t see to spell wi’out a candle close at my elbow.” 

“ Niver mind about candles. I can bring up a candle wi’ 
me, for I should be burning one at Alice Eose’s.” 

So that excuse would not do. Sylvia beat her brains for 
another. 

“ Writing cramps my hand so, I can’t do any sewing for 
a day after; and feyther wants his shirts very bad.” 

“ But, Sylvia, I’ll teach you geography, and ever such a 
vast o’ fine things about t’ countries on t’ map.” 

“ Is t’ Arctic seas down on t’ map ? ” she asked, in a 
tone of greatest interest. 

“ Yes ! Arctics, and tropics, and equator, and equinoctial 
line ; we’ll take ’em turn and turn about ; we’ll do writing 
and ciphering one night, and geography t’ other.” 

8i 


G 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Philip spoke with pleasure at the prospect ; but Sylvia 
relaxed into indifference. 

“ I’m no scholard ; it’s like throwing away labour to 
teach me, I’m such a dunce at my book. Now there’s 
Betsy Corney, third girl, her as is younger than Molly, she’d 
be a credit to you. There niver was such a lass for pottering 
ower books.” 

If Philip had had his wits about him, he would have pre- 
tended to listen to this proposition of a change of pupils ; and 
then possibly Sylvia might have repented making it. But he 
was too much mortified to be diplomatic. 

“ My aunt asked me to teach you a bit, not any neigh- 
bour’s lass.” 

“ Well, if I mun be taught, I mun ; but I’d rayther be 
whipped and ha’ done with it,” was Sylvia’s ungracious 
reply. 

A moment afterwards she repented of her little spirit of 
unkindness, and thought that she should not like to die that 
night without making friends. Sudden death was very 
present in her thoughts since the funeral. So she instinc- 
tively chose the best method of making friends again, and 
slipped her hand into his, as he walked a little sullenly at 
her side. She was half afraid, however, when she found it 
firmly held, and that she could not draw it away again with- 
out making, what she called in her own mind, a “ fuss.” So, 
hand in hand, they slowly and silently came up to the door 
of Haytersbank Farm ; not unseen by Bell Eobson, who sate 
in the window-seat, with her Bible open upon her knee. 
She had read her chapter aloud to herself, and now she could 
see no longer, even if she had wished to read more ; but she 
gazed out into the darkening air, and a dim look of content- 
ment came like moonshine over her face when she saw the 
cousins approach. 

“ That’s my prayer day and night,” said she to herself. 

But there was no unusual aspect of gladness on her face, 
as she lighted the candle to give them a more cheerful 
welcome. 


82 


Tete-a-t0ite — The Will 

“ Wheere’s feyther ? ” said Sylvia, looking round the room 
for Daniel. 

“ He’s been to Kirk Moorside Church, for t’ see a bit o’ 
th’ world, as he ca’s it. And sin’ then he’s gone out to th’ 
cattle ; for Kester’s ta’en his turn of playing hissel’, now that 
father’s better.” 

“ I’ve been talking to Sylvia,” said Philip, his head still full 
of his pleasant plan, his hand still tingling from the touch of 
hers, “ about turning schoolmaster, and coming up here two 
nights a week for t’ teach her a bit o’ writing and ciphering.”, 

“ And geography,” put in Sylvia ; “ for,” thought she, 
“ if I’m to learn them things I don’t care a pin about, any- 
how I’ll learn what I do care to know, if it’ll tell me about 
t’ Greenland seas, and how far they’re off.” 

That same evening, a trio alike in many outward circum- 
stances sate in a small, neat room in a house opening out of 
a confined court on the hilly side of the High Street of 
Monkshaven — a mother, her only child, and the young man 
who silently loved that daughter, and was favoured by Alice 
Eose, though not by Hester. 

When the latter returned from her afternoon’s absence, 
she stood for a minute or two on the little flight of steep 
steps, whitened to a snowy whiteness ; the aspect of the 
whole house partook of the same character of irreproachable 
cleanliness. It was wedged up into a space which necessi- 
tated all sorts of odd projections and irregularities in order to 
obtain sufficient light for the interior ; and, if ever the being 
situated in a dusky, confined corner might have been made 
an excuse for dirt, Alice Eose’s house had that apology. 
Yet the small, diamond panes of glass in the casement 
window were kept so bright and clear that a great, sweet- 
scented-leaved geranium grew and flourished, though it did 
not flower profusely. The leaves seemed to fill the air with 
fragrance as soon as Hester summoned up energy enough to 
open the door. Perhaps that was because the young 
Quaker, William Coulson, was crushing one between his 

83 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

finger and thumb, while waiting to set down Alice’s next 
words. For the old woman, who looked as if many years of 
life remained in her yet, was solemnly dictating her last will 
and testament. 

It had been on her mind for many months ; for she had 
something to leave beyond the mere furniture of the house. 
Something — a few pounds — in the hands of John and 
Jeremiah Foster, her cousins; and it was they who had 
suggested the duty on which she was engaged. She had 
asked William Coulson to write down her wishes, and he 
had consented, though with some fear and trepidation ; for 
he had an idea that he was infringing on a lawyer’s preroga- 
tive, and that, for aught he knew, he might be prosecuted 
for making a will without a license, just as a man might be 
punished for selling wine and spirits without going through 
the preliminary legal forms that give permission for such a 
sale. But to his suggestion that Alice should employ a 
lawyer she had replied — 

“ That would cost me five pounds sterling ; and thee 
canst do it as well, if thee’ll but attend to my words.” 

So he had bought, at her desire, a black-edged sheet of 
fine-wove paper, and a couple of good pens, on the previous 
Saturday ; and, while waiting for her to begin her dictation, 
and full of serious thoughts himself, he had almost un- 
consciously made the grand flourish at the top of the paper 
which he had learnt at school, and which was there called a 
spread-eagle. 

“ What art thee doing there ? ” asked Alice, suddenly alive 
to his proceedings. 

Without a word he showed her his handiwork. 

“ It’s a vanity,” said she, “ and ’t may make t’ will not 
stand. Folk may think I were na’ in my right mind, if they 
see such fly-legs and cobwebs a-top. Write, ‘ This is my 
doing, William Coulson, and none of Alice Eose’s, she being 
in her sound mind.’ ” 

“ I don’t think it’s needed,” said William. Nevertheless 
he wrote down the words. 


84 


T6te-a-tete — The Will 

“ Hast thee put that I’m in my sound mind and seven 
senses ? Then make the sign of the Trinity, and write, ‘ In 
the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.’ ” 

“ Is that the right way o’ beginning a will ? ” said Coulson, 
a little startled. 

“ My father, and my father’s father, and my husband had 
it a-top of theirs, and I’m noane going for to cease fra’ follow- 
ing after them ; for they were godly men, though my husband 
were o’ t’ Episcopal persuasion.” 

“ It’s done,” said William. 

“ Hast thee dated it ? ” asked Alice. 

“ Nay.” 

“ Then date it third day, ninth month. Now, art ready ? ” 

Coulson nodded. 

“ I, Alice Eose, do leave my furniture (that is, my bed and 
chest o’ drawers, for thy bed and things is thine, and not mine), 
and settle, and saucepans, and dresser, and table, and kettle, 
and all the rest of my furniture, to my lawful and only 
daughter, Hester Eose. I think that’s safe for her to have 
all, is ’t not, William ? ” 

“ I think so, too,” said he, writing on all the time. 

“ And thee shalt have t’ roller and paste-board, because 
thee’s so fond o’ puddings and cakes. It’ll serve thy wife 
after I’m gone, and I trust she’ll boil her paste long enough, 
for that’s been t’ secret o’ mine, and thee’ll noane be so easy 
t’ please.” 

“ I didn’t reckon on marriage,” said William. 

“ Thee’ll marry,” said Alice. “ Thee likes to have thy 
victuals hot and comfortable ; and there’s noane many but a 
wife as’ll look after that for t’ please thee.” 

“ I know who could please me,” sighed forth William, 
“ but I can’t please her.” 

Alice looked sharply at him from over her spectacles, 
which she had put on the better to think about the disposal 
of her property. 

“ Thee art thinking on our Hester,” said she plainly out. 

He started a little, but looked up at her and met her eye. 

85 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Hester cares noane for me,” said he dejectedly. 

“ Bide a while, my lad,” said Alice kindly. “ Young 
women don’t always know their own minds. Thee and her 
would make a marriage after my own heart ; and the Lord has 
been very good to me hitherto, and I think He’ll bring it t’ 
pass. But don’t thee let on as thee cares for her so much. 
I sometimes think she wearies o’ thy looks and thy ways. 
Show up thy manly heart, and make as though thee had much 
else to think on, and no leisure for to dawdle after her, and 
she’ll think a deal more on thee. And now mend thy pen 
for a fresh start. I give and bequeath — did thee put ‘ give 
and bequeath,’ at th’ beginning ? ” 

“Nay,” said William, looking back. “ Thee didst not tell 
me ‘ give and bequeath ! ’” 

“ Then it won’t be legal, and my bit o’ furniture’ll be 
taken to London, and put into Chancery, and Hester will have 
noane on it.” 

“ I can write it over,” said William. 

“ Well, write it clear then, and put a line under it to show 
those are my special words. Hast thee done it ? Then now 
start afresh. I give and bequeath my book o’ sermons, as is 
bound in good calfskin, and lies on the third shelf o’ comer 
cupboard at the right hand o’ t’ fireplace, to Philip Hepburn ; 
for I reckon he’s as fond o’ reading sermons as thee art o’ 
light, well-boiled paste, and I’d be glad for each on ye to 
have somewhat ye like for to remember me by. Is that 
down ? There ; now for my cousins John and Jeremiah. 
They are rich i’ world’s gear, but they’ll prize what I leave 
’em, if I could only onbethink me what they would like. 
Hearken ! Is na’ that our Hester’s step ? Put it away, 
quick ! I’m noane for grieving her wi’ telling her what I’ve 
been about. We’ll take a turn at t’ will next First Day ; it 
will serve us for several Sabbaths to come, and maybe I can 
think on something as will suit cousin John and cousin 
Jeremiah afore then.” 

Hester, as was mentioned, paused a minute or two before 
lifting the latch of the door. When she entered there was 

86 


Tete-a-tete— The Will 

no unusual sign of writing about ; only Will Coulson looking 
very red, and crushing and smelling at the geranium leaf. 

Hester came in briskly, with the little stock of enforced 
cheerfulness she had stopped at the door to acquire. But it 
faded away along with the faint flush of colour in her cheeks ; 
and the mother’s quick eye immediately noted the wan, heavy 
look of care. 

“ I have kept t’ pot in t’ oven ; it’ll have a’most got a’ t’ 
goodness out of t’ tea by now, for it’ll be an hour since I made 
it. Poor lass, thou look’st as if thou needed a good cup o’ 
tea. It were dree work sitting wi’ Betsy Darley, were it ? 
And how does she look on her affliction ? ” 

“ She takes it sore to heart,” said Hester, taking off her 
hat, and folding and smoothing away her cloak, before putting 
them in the great oak chest (or “ ark ”, as it was called), in 
which they were laid from Sunday to Sunday. 

As she opened the. lid, a sweet scent of dried lavender and 
rose-leaves came out. William stepped hastily forwards to 
hold up the heavy lid for her. She lifted up her head, looked 
at him full with her serene eyes, and thanked him for his 
little service. Then she took a creepie-stool and sate down 
on the side of the fireplace, having her back to the window. 

The hearth was of the same spotless whiteness as the 
steps ; all that was black about the grate was polished to 
the utmost extent ; all that was of brass, like the handle of 
the oven, was burnished bright. Her mother placed the 
little, black, earthenware teapot, in which the tea had been 
stewing, on the table, where cups and saucers were already 
set for four, and a large plate of bread and butter cut. Then 
they sate round the table, bowed their heads, and kept silence 
for a minute or two. 

When this grace was ended, and they were about to 
begin, Alice said, as if without premeditation, but in reality 
with a keen shrinking of heart, out of sympathy with her 
child— 

“ Philip would have been in to his tea by now, I reckon, 
if he’d been coming.” 


87 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

William looked up suddenly at Hester ; her mother care- 
fully turned her head another way. But she answered quite 
quietly — 

“ He’ll be gone to his aunt’s at Haytersbank. I met him 
at t’ top o’ t’ Brow, with his cousin and Molly Corney.” 

“ He’s a deal there,” said William. 

“ Yes,” said Hester. “It’s likely ; him and his aunt 
come from Carlisle-way, and must needs cling together in 
these strange parts.” 

“ I saw him at the burying of yon Darley,” said William. 

“ It were a vast o’ people went past th’ entry end,” said 
Alice. “ It were a’most like election time ; I were just come 
back fra’ meeting when they were all going up th’ church 
steps. I met yon sailor as, they say, used violence and did 
murder ; he looked like a ghost, though whether it were his 
bodily wounds, or the sense of his sins stirring within him, 
it’s not for me to say. And by t’ time I was back liere and 
settled to my Bible, t’ folk were returning, and it were 
tramp, tramp, past th’ entry end for better nor a quarter of 
an hour.” 

“ They say Kinraid has getten slugs and gun-shot in his 
side,” said Hester. 

“ He’s niver one Charley Kinraid, for sure, as I knowed 
at Newcastle,” said William Coulson, roused to sudden and 
energetic curiosity. 

“I don’t know,” replied Hester; “they call him just 
Kinraid ; and Betsy Darley says he’s t’ most daring speck- 
sioneer of all that go off this coast to t’ Greenland seas. But 
he’s been in Newcastle, for I mind me she said her poor 
brother met with him there.” 

“ How didst thee come to know him ? ” inquired Alice. 

“ I cannot abide him, if it is Charley,” said William. “ He 
kept company with my poor sister as is dead for better nor 
two year, and then he left off coming to see her and went wi’ 
another girl; and it just broke her heart.” 

“ He don’t look now as if he iver could play at that game 
again,” said Alice ; “he has had a warning fra’ the Lord. 

88 


Attraction and Repulsion 

Whether it be a call, no one can tell. But to my eyne he 
looks as if he had been called, and was going.” 

“ Then he’ll meet my sister,” said William solemnly ; 
“ and I hope the Lord will make it clear to him, then, how 
he killed her, as sure as he shot down yon sailors; an’ if 
there’s a gnashing o’ teeth for murder i’ that other place, I 
reckon he’ll have his share on’t. He’s a bad man yon.” 

“ Betsy said he were such a friend to her brother as niver 
was ; and he’s sent her word and promised to go and see her, 
first place he goes out to.” 

But William only shook his head, and repeated his last 
words — 

“ He’s a bad man, he is.” 

When Philip came home that Sunday night, he found 
only Alice up to receive him. The usual bedtime in the 
household was nine o’clock, and it was but ten minutes past 
the hour ; but Alice looked displeased and stern. 

“ Thee art late, lad,” said she shortly. 

“ I’m sorry ; it’s a long way from my uncle’s, and I 
think clocks are different,” said he, taking out his watch to 
compare it with the round moon’s face that told the time to 
Alice. 

“I know nought about thy uncle’s, but thee art late. 
Take thy candle, and begone.” 

If Alice made any reply to Philip’s “ good-night,” he did 
not hear it. 

V 


OHAPTEE VIII 

ATTRACTION AND REPULSION 

A FORTNIGHT had passed over, and winter was advancing 
with rapid strides. In bleak northern farmsteads there was 
much to be done before November weather should make the 
roads too heavy for half-fed horses to pull carts through. 

89 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

There was the turf, pared up on the distant moors, and left 
out to dry, to be carried home and stacked ; the brown fern 
was to be stored up for winter bedding for the cattle ; for 
straw was scarce and dear in those parts ; even for thatching, 
heather (or rather ling) was used. Then there was meat to 
salt while it could be had ; for, in default of turnips and 
mangold-wurzel, there was a great slaughtering of barren 
cows as soon as the summer herbage failed ; and good 
housewives stored up their Christmas piece of beef in pickle 
before Martinmas was over. Corn was to be ground, while yet 
it could be carried to the distant mill ; the great racks for oat- 
cake, that swung at the top of the kitchen, had to be filled. 
And last of all came the pig-killing, when the second frost 
set in. For up in the north there is an idea that the ice 
stored in the first frost will melt, and the meat cured then 
taint ; the first frost was good for nothing but to be thrown 
away, as they express it. 

There came a breathing-time after this last event. The 
house had had its last autumn-cleaning, and was neat and 
bright from top to bottom, from one end to another. The 
turf was led ; the coal carted up from Monkshaven ; the 
wood stored ; the corn ground ; the pig killed, and the hams 
and head and hands lying in salt. The butcher had been 
glad to take the best parts of a pig of Dame Eobson’s careful 
feeding ; but there was unusual plenty in the Haytersbank 
pantry; and, as Bell surveyed it one morning, she said to 
her husband — / ^ 

“ I wonder if yon poor sick chap at Moss Brow would ! 
fancy some o’ my sausages ? They’re something to crack on, | 
for they are made fra’ an old Cumberland receipt, as is not i 
known i’ Yorkshire yet.” ] 

“ Thou’s allays so set upo’ Cumberland ways ! ” said her ' 
husband, not displeased with the suggestion, however. “Still, j 
when folk’s sick they ban their fancies ; and maybe Kin- v 
raid’ll be glad o’ thy sausages. I ha’ known sick folk tak’ i 
eating snails.” j 

This was not complimentary, perhaps. But Daniel went I 
90 ] 


Attraction and Repulsion 

on to say that he did not mind if he stepped over with the 
sausages himself, when it was too late to do anything else. 
Sylvia longed to offer to accompany her father; but, some- 
how, she did not like to propose it. Towards dusk she came 
to her mother to ask for the key of the great bureau that 
stood in the house-place as a state piece of furniture, although 
its use was to contain the family’s best wearing apparel, and 
stores of linen, such as might be supposed to be more needed 
upstairs. 

“ What for do yo’ want my keys ? ” asked Bell. 

“ Only just to get out one of t’ damask napkins.” 

“ The best napkins, as my mother span ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Sylvia, her colour heightening. “ I thought 
as how it would set off t’ sausages.” 

“ A good, clean, homespun cloth will serve them better,” 
said Bell, wondering in her own mind what was come over 
the girl, to be thinking of setting off sausages, that were to be 
eaten, not to be looked at like a picture-book. She might 
have wondered still more, if she had seen Sylvia steal round 
to the little flower border she had persuaded Kester to make 
under the wall at the sunny side of the house, and gather 
two or three Michaelmas daisies, and the one bud of the 
China rose, that, growing against the kitchen chimney, had 
escaped the frost ; and then, when her mother was not look- 
ing, softly open the cloth inside of the little basket that 
contained the sausages and a fresh egg or two, and lay her 
autumn blossoms in one of the folds of the towel. 

After Daniel, now pretty clear of his rheumatism, had 
had his afternoon meal (tea was a Sunday treat), he pre- 
pared to set out on his walk to Moss Brow ; but, as he was 
taking his stick, he caught the look on Sylvia’s face, and 
unconsciously interpreted its dumb wistfulness. 

“ Missus,” said he, “ t’ wench has nought more t’ do, has 
she ? She may as well put on her cloak and step down wi’ 
me and see Molly a bit ; she’ll be company like.” 

Bell considered. 

“ There’s t’ yam for thy stockings as is yet to spin ; but 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

she can go, for 111 do a bit at t’ myser, and there s nought 
else agate.” 

“ Put on thy things in a jiffy, then, and let’s be off, said 
Daniel. 

And Sylvia did not need another word. Down she came 
in a twinkling, dressed in her new red cloak and hood, her 
face peeping out of the folds of the latter, bright and blushing. 

“ Thou should’ st na’ ha’ put on thy new cloak for a night 
walk to Moss Brow,” said Bell, shaking her head. 

“ Shall I go take it off, and put on my shawl ? ” asked 
Sylvia, a little dolefully. 

“ Na, na, come along ! a’m noane goin’ for t’ wait o’ 
women’s chops and changes. Come along ; come. Lassie ! ” 
(this last to his dog). 

So Sylvia set off with a dancing heart and a dancing step, 
that had to be restrained to the sober gait her father chose. 
The sky above was bright and clear with the light of a 
thousand stars, the grass was crisping under their feet with 
the coming hoar-frost ; and, as they mounted to the higher 
ground, they could see the dark sea stretching away far below 
them. The night was very still, though now and then crisp 
sounds in the distant air sounded very near in the silence. 
Sylvia carried the basket, and looked like little Bed Biding 
Hood. Her father had nothing to say, and did not care to 
make himself agreeable ; but Sylvia enjoyed her own thoughts, 
and any conversation would have been a disturbance to her. 
The long, monotonous roll of the distant waves, as the tide 
bore them in, the multitudinous rush at last, and then the 
retreating rattle and trickle, as the baffled waters fell back 
over the shingle that skirted the sands, and divided them 
from the cliffs ; her father’s measured tread and slow, even 
movement ; Lassie’s pattering — all lulled Sylvia into a reverie, 
of which she could not have given herself any definite 
account. But at length they arrived at Moss Brow ; and 
with a sudden sigh she quitted the subjects of her dreamy 
meditations, and followed her father into the great house- 
place. It had a more comfortable aspect by night than by 

92 


Attraction and Repulsion 

day. The fire was always kept up to a wasteful size, and 
the dancing blaze and the partial light of candles left much 
in shadow that was best ignored in such a disorderly family. 
But there was always a warm welcome to friends, however 
roughly given ; and, after the words of this were spoken, 
the next rose up equally naturally in the mind of Mrs. 
Corney. 

“ And what will ye tak’ ? Eh ! but t’ ineaster’ll be fine 
and vexed at your cornin’ when he’s away. He’s off to 
Horncastle t’ sell some colts, and he’ll not be back till to- 
morrow’s neet. But here’s Charley Kinraid as we’ve getten 
to nurse up a bit, an’ t’ lads’ll be back fra’ Monkshaven in a 
crack o’ no time.” 

All this was addressed to Daniel, to whom she knew that 
none but masculine company would be acceptable. Amongst 
uneducated people — whose range of subjects and interest do 
not extend beyond their daily life — it is natural that, when 
the first blush and hurry of youth is over, there should be 
no great pleasure in the conversation of the other sex. Men 
have plenty to say to men which in their estimation (gained 
from tradition and experience) women cannot understand ; 
and farmers of a much later date than the one of which I 
am writing would have contemptuously considered it as a 
loss of time to talk to women ; indeed, they were often more 
communicative to the sheep-dog that accompanied them 
through all the day’s work, and frequently became a sort of 
dumb confidant. Farmer Eobson’s Lassie now lay down at 
her master’s feet, placed her nose between her paws, and 
watched with attentive eyes the preparations going on for 
refreshments — preparations which, to the disappointment of 
her canine heart, consisted entirely of tumblers and sugar. 

“ Where’s t’ wench ? ” said Eobson, after he had shaken 
hands with Kinraid, and spoken a few words to him and 
to Mrs. Corney. “ She’s getten’ a basket wi’ sausages 
in ’em, as my missus has made, and she’s a rare hand at 
sausages ; there’s noane like her in a’ t’ three Eidings, I’ll 
be bound ! ” 


93 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

For Daniel could praise his wife’s powers in her absence, 
though he did not often express himself in an appreciative 
manner when she was by to hear. But Sylvia’s quick sense 
caught up the manner in which Mrs. Corney would apply 
the way in which her mother’s housewifery had been 
exalted ; and, stepping forwards out of the shadow, she said — 

** Mother thought, maybe, you hadn’t killed a pig yet ; 
and sausages is always a bit savoury for any one who is 
na’ well ; and ” 

She might have gone on but that she caught Kinraid’s 
eyes looking at her with kindly admiration. She stopped 
speaking, and Mrs. Corney took up the word — 

“ As for sausages, I ha’ niver had a chance this year, else 
I stand again any one for t’ making of ’em. Yorkshire hams ’s 
a vast thought on, and I’ll niver let another county woman 
say as she can make better sausages nor me. But, as I’m 
saying, I’d niver a chance ; for our pig, as I were sa fond on, 
and fed mysel’, and as would ha’ been fourteen stone by now 
if he were an ounce, and as knew me as well as any Christian, 
and a pig, as I may say, that I just idolized, went and 
took a fit a week after Michaelmas Day, and died, as if it had 
been to spite me ; and t’ next is na’ ready for killing, nor 
wunnot be this six week. So I’m much beholden to your 
missus, and so’s Charley, I’m sure ; though he’s ta’en a turn 
to betterin’ sin’ he came out here to be nursed.” 

“ I’m a deal better,” said Kinraid ; “ a’most ready for t’ 
press-gang to give chase to again.” 

“ But folk say they’re gone off this coast for one while,” 
added Daniel. 

“ They’re gone down towards Hull, as I’ve been told,” 
said Kinraid. “ But they’re a deep set ; they’ll be here before 
we know where we are, some of these days.” 

“ See thee here ! ” said Daniel, exhibiting his maimed 
hand ; “ a reckon a served ’em out time o’ t’ Ameriky war.” 
And he began the story Sylvia knew so well ; for her father 
never made a new acquaintance but what he told him of his 
self-mutilation to escape the press-gang. It had been done, 

94 


Attraction and Repulsion 

as he would himself have owned, to spite himself as well as 
them ; for it had obliged him to leave a sea-life, to which, in 
comparison, all life spent on shore was worse than nothing 
for dulness. For Eobson had never reached that rank aboard 
ship which made his being unable to run up the rigging, 
or to throw a harpoon, or to fire off a gun, of no great conse- 
quence ; so he had to be thankful that an opportune legacy 
enabled him to turn farmer, a great degradation in his 
opinion. But his blood warmed, as he told the specksioneer, 
towards a sailor ; and he pressed Kinraid to beguile the time 
when he was compelled to be ashore, by coming over to see 
him at Haytersbank, whenever he felt inclined. 

Sylvia, appearing to listen to Molly’s confidences, was 
hearkening in reality to all this conversation between her 
father and the specksioneer ; and at this invitation she be- 
came especially attentive. 

Kinraid replied — “ I’m much obliged to ye, I’m sure ; 
maybe I can come and spend an ev’ning wi’ you ; but, as 
soon as I’m got round a bit, I must go see my own people as 
live at Cullercoats, near Newcastle-upo’-Tyne.” 

“ Well, well 1 ” said Daniel, rising to take leave, with un- 
usual prudence as to the amount of his drink. “ Thou’lt see, 
thou’lt see ! I shall be main glad to see thee, if thou’lt come. 
But I’ve na’ lads to keep thee company, only one sprig of a 
wench. Sylvia, come here, an’ let’s show thee to this young 
fellow ! ” 

Sylvia came forwards, ruddy as any rose, and in a 
moment Kinraid recognised her as the pretty little girl he 
had seen crying so bitterly over Barley’s grave. He rose up 
out of true sailor’s gallantry, as she shyly approached, and 
stood by her father’s side, scarcely daring to lift her great, 
soft eyes, to have one fair gaze at his face. He had to sup- 
port himself by one hand rested on the dresser, but she saw 
he was looking far better — younger, less haggard — than he 
had seemed to her before. His face was short and expres- 
sive ; his complexion had been weatherbeaten and bronzed, 
though now he looked so pale ; his eyes and hair were dark, 

95 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

— the former quick, deep-set, and penetrating; the latter 
curly, and almost in ringlets. His teeth gleamed white as 
he smiled at her a pleasant, friendly smile of recognition ; 
but she only blushed the deeper, and hung her head. 

“ I’ll come, sir, and be thankful. I daresay a turn’ll do 
me good, if the weather holds up, an’ th’ frost keeps on.” 

“ That’s right, my lad,” said Eobson, shaking him by the 
hand, and then Kinraid’s hand was held out to Sylvia, and 
she could not avoid the same friendly action. 

Molly Corney followed her to the door ; and, when they 
were fairly outside, she held Sylvia back for an instant to 
say— 

“ Is na’ he a fine likely man ? I’m so glad as yo’ve seen 
him, for he’s to be off next week to Newcastle and that 
neighbourhood. ’ ’ 

“ But he said he’d come to us some night ? ” asked 
Sylvia, half in a fright. 

“Ay, I’ll see as he does; never fear. For I should 
like yo’ for to know him a bit. He’s a rare talker. I’ll mind 
him o’ coming to yo’.” 

Somehow, Sylvia felt as if this repeated promise of 
reminding Kinraid of his promise to come and see her father 
took away part of the pleasure she had anticipated from his 
visit. Yet what could be more natural than that Molly 
Corney should wish her friend to be acquainted with the 
man whom Sylvia believed to be all but Molly’s engaged 
lover ? 

Pondering these thoughts, the walk home was as silent 
as that going to Moss Brow had been. The only change 
seemed to be that now they faced the brilliant northern 
lights flashing up the sky, and that either this appearance or 
some of the whaling narrations of Kinraid had stirred up 
Daniel Eobson’s recollections of a sea ditty, which he kept 
singing to himself in a low, unmusical voice, and the burden 
of which was, “ For I love the tossin’ say ! ” Bell met them 
at the door. 

“ Well, and here ye are at home again ! and Philip has 
96 


Attraction and Repulsion 

been, Sylvie, to give thee thy ciphering lesson ; and he stayed 
awhile, thinking thou’d be coming back.” 

“ I’m very sorry,” said Sylvia, more out of deference to 
her mother’s tone of annoyance, than because she herself 
cared either for her lesson or her cousin’s disappointment. 

“ He’ll come again to-morrow night, he says. But thou 
must take care, and mind the nights he says he’ll come ; for 
it’s a long way to come for nought.” 

Sylvia might have repeated her “I’m very sorry,” at this 
announcement of Philip’s intentions ; but she restrained her- 
self, inwardly and fervently hoping that Molly would not 
urge the fulfilment of the specksioneer’s promise for to- 
morrow night, for Philip’s being there would spoil all ; and 
besides, if she sate at the dresser at her lesson, and Kinraid 
at the table with her father, he might hear all, and find out 
what a dunce she was. 

She need not have been afraid. With the next night 
Hepburn came ; and Kinraid did not. After a few words to 
her mother, Philip produced the candles he had promised, 
and some books and a quill or two. 

“ What for hast thou brought candles ? ” asked Bell, in a 
half-affronted tone. 

Hepburn smiled. 

“ Sylvia thought it would take a deal of candle-light, and 
was for making it into a reason not to learn. I should ha’ 
used t’ candles if I’d stayed at home, so I just brought them 
wi’ me.” 

“ Then thou may’st just take them back again,” said Bell 
shortly, blowing out that which he had lighted, and placing 
one of her own on the dresser instead. 

Sylvia caught her mother’s look of displeasure ; and it 
made her docile for the evening, although she owed her 
cousin a grudge for her enforced good behaviour. 

“ Now, Sylvia, here’s a copy-book wi’ t’ Tower o’ London 
on it, and we’ll fill it wi’ as pretty writing as any in t’ North 
Biding.” 

Sylvia sate quite still, unenlivened by this prospect. 

97 H 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Here’s a pen as ’ll nearly write of itsel’,” continued 
Philip, still trying to coax her out of her sullenness of 
manner. 

Then he arranged her in the right position. 

“ Don’t lay your head down on your left arm, you’ll ne’er 
see to write straight.” 

The attitude was changed, but not a word was spoken. 
Philip began to grow angry at such determined dumbness. 

“ Are you tired ? ” asked he, with a strange mixture of 
crossness and tenderness. 

“Yes, very,” was her reply. 

“ But thou ought’st not to be tired,” said Bell, who had 
not yet got over the offence to her hospitality ; who, more- 
over, liked her nephew, and had, to boot, a great respect for 
the learning she had never acquired. 

“ Mother ! ” said Sylvia, bursting out, “ what’s the use on 
my writing ‘ Abednego,’ ‘ Abednego,’ ‘ Abednego,’ all down a 
page ? If I could see t’ use on ’t, I’d ha’ axed father to send 
me t’ school ; but I’m none wanting to have learning.” 

“ It’s a fine thing, tho,’ is learning. My mother and my 
grandmother had it ; but th’ family came down i’ the world, 
and Philip’s mother and me, we had none of it ; but I ha’ 
set my heart on thy having it, child.” 

“ My fingers is stiff,” pleaded Sylvia, holding up her 
little hand and shaking it. 

“ Let us take a turn at spelling, then,” said Philip. 

“ What’s t’ use on’t ? ” asked captious Sylvia. 

“ Why, it helps one i’ reading an’ writing.” 

“ And what does reading and writing do for one ? ” 

Her mother gave her another of the severe looks that, 
quiet woman as she was, she could occasionally bestow upon 
the refractory, and Sylvia took her book and glanced down 
the column Philip pointed out to her ; but, as she justly con- 
sidered, one man might point out the task, but twenty could 
not make her learn it, if she did not choose ; and she sat 
herself down on the edge of the dresser, and idly gazed into 
the fire. But her mother came round to look for something 

9S 


Attraction and Repulsion 

in the drawers of the dresser ; and, as she passed her daughter 
she said in a low voice — 

“ Sylvia, be a good lass. I set a deal o’ store by learn- 
ing, and father ’ud never send thee to school, as has stuck 
by me sore.” 

If Philip, sitting with his back to them, heard these 
words, he was discreet enough not to show that he heard. 
And he had his reward; for in a very short time Sylvia 
stood before him with her book in her hand, prepared to say 
her spelling. At which he also stood up by instinct, and 
listened to her slow, succeeding letters ; helping her out, 
when she looked up at him with a sweet, childlike perplexity 
in her face : for a dunce as to book-learning poor Sylvia was, 
and was likely to remain ; and, in spite of his assumed ofi&ce 
of schoolmaster, Philip Hepburn could almost have echoed 
the words of the lover of Jess MacParlane — 

“ I sent my love a letter ; 

But alas 1 she canna read, 

And I lo’e her a’ the better.” 

Still, he knew his aunt’s strong wish on the subject, and it 
was very delightful to stand in the relation of teacher to so 
dear and pretty, if so wilful, a pupil. 

Perhaps it was not very flattering to notice Sylvia s great 
joy when her lessons were over, sadly shortened as they 
were by Philip’s desire not to be too hard upon her. Sylvia 
danced round to her mother, bent her head back, and kissed 
her face, and then said defyingly to Philip — 

“ If iver I write thee a letter, it shall just be full of nothing 
but ' Abednego ! Abednego ! Abednego ! ’ ” 

But at this moment her father came in from a distant 
expedition on the moors with Kester, to look after the sheep he 
had been pasturing there before the winter set fairly in. He 
was tired, and so was Lassie, and so, too, was Kester : who, 
lifting his heavy legs one after the other, and smoothing 
down his hair, followed his master into the house-place, and, 
seating himself on a bench at the farther end of the dresser, 

99 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

patiently awaited the supper of porridge and milk which he 
shared with his master. Sylvia, meanwhile, coaxed Lassie 
— poor footsore dog— to her side, and gave her some food, 
which the creature was almost too tired to eat. Philip made 
as though he would be going, but Daniel motioned to him to 
be quiet. 

“ Sit thee down, lad. As soon as I’ve had my victual, I 
want t’ hear a bit o’ news.” 

Sylvia took her sewing and sat at the little round table 
by her mother, sharing the light of the scanty dip-candle. 
No one spoke. Every one was absorbed in what they were 
doing. What Philip was doing was, gazing at Sylvia — 
learning her face off by heart. 

When every scrap of porridge was cleared out of the 
mighty bowl, Kester yawned, and, wishing good-night, with- 
drew to his loft over the cow-house. Then Philip pulled 
out the weekly York paper, and began to read the latest 
accounts of the war then raging. This was giving Daniel one 
of his greatest pleasures; for, though he could read pretty 
well, yet the double effort of reading and understanding what 
he read was almost too much for him. He could read, or he 
could understand what was read aloud to him ; reading was 
no pleasure, but listening was. 

Besides, he had a true John Bull-ish interest in the war, 
without very well knowing what the English were fighting 
for. But in those days, so long as they fought the French 
for any cause or for no cause at all, every true patriot was 
satisfied. Sylvia and her mother did not care for any such 
far-extended interests ; a httle bit of York news, the stealing 
of a few apples out of a Scarborough garden that they knew, 
was of far more interest to them than all the battles of 
Nelson and the North. 

Phihp read in a high-pitched and unnatural tone of voice, 
which deprived the words of their reality ; for even familiar 
expressions can become unfamiliar and convey no ideas, if 
the utterance is forced or affected. Philip was somewhat of 
a pedant ; yet there was a simplicity in his pedantry not 

lOO 


Attraction and Repulsion 

always to' be met with in those who are self-taught, and 
which might have interested any one who cared to know 
with what labour and difficulty he had acquired the know- 
ledge which now he prized so highly; reading out Latin 
quotations as easily as if they were ' English, and taking a 
pleasure in rolling polysyllables, until all at once, looking 
askance at Sylvia, he saw that her head had fallen back, her 
pretty rosy lips open, her eyes fast shut ; in short, she was 
asleep. 

“ Ay,” said Farmer Eobson, “ and t’ reading has a’most 
sent me off. Mother ’d look angry now, if I was to tell yo’ 
yo’ had a right to a kiss ; but when I was a young man I’d 
ha’ kissed a pretty girl as I saw asleep, afore yo’d said Jack 
Eobinson.” 

Philip trembled at these words, and looked at his aunt. 
She gave him no encouragement, standing up, and making 
as though she had never heard her husband’s speech, by 
extending her hand, and wishing him “ good-night.” At the 
noise of the chairs moving over the flag floor, Sylvia started 
up, confused and annoyed at her father’s laughter. 

Ay, lass ; it’s iver a good time t’ fall asleep when a 
young fellow is by. Here’s Philip here as thou’rt bound t’ 
give a pair o’ gloves to.” 

Sylvia went like fire ; she turned to her mother to read 
her face. 

“ It’s only father’s joke, lass,” said she. “ Philip knows 
manners too well.” 

“ He’d better,” said Sylvia, flaming round at him. “ If 
he’d a touched me, I’d niver ha’ spoken to him no more.” 
And she looked, even as it was, as if she was far from for- 
giving him. 

“ Hoots, lass ! wenches are brought up sa mim, 
nowadays; i’ my time they’d ha’ thought na’ such great 
harm of a kiss.” 

“ Good-night, Philip,” said Bell Eobson, thinking the 
conversation unseemly. 

“ Good-night, aunt ; good-night, Sylvie I ” But Sylvia 


lOI 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

turned her back on him, and he could hardly say “ good- 
night ” to Daniel, who had caused such an unpleasant end 
to an evening that had at one time been going on so well. 


CHAPTEE IX 

THE SPECKSIONEER 

A FEW days after. Farmer Eobson left Haytersbank betimes 
on a longish day’s journey, to purchase a horse. Sylvia and 
her mother were busied with a hundred household things, 
and the early winter’s evening closed in upon them almost 
before they were aware. The consequences of darkness in 
the country, even now, are to gather the members of a family 
together in one room, and to make them settle to some 
sedentary employment ; and it was much more the case at 
the period of my story, when candles were far dearer than 
they are at present, and when one was often made to suffice 
for a large family. 

The mother and daughter hardly spoke at all, when they 
sat down at last. The cheerful click of the knitting-needles 
made a pleasant home-sound ; and, in the occasional snatches 
of slumber that overcame her mother, Sylvia could hear the 
long-rushing boom of the waves, down below the rocks ; for 
the Haytersbank gulley allowed the sullen roar to come up 
so far inland. It might have been about eight o’clock — 
though from the monotonous course of the evening it seemed 
much later — when Sylvia heard her father’s heavy step 
cranching down the pebbly path. More unusual, she heard 
his voice talking to some companion. 

Curious to see who it could be, with a lively instinctive 
advance towards any event which might break the monotony 
she had begun to find somewhat dull, she sprang up to open 
the door. Half a glance into the grey darkness outside made 


102 


The Specksioneer 

her suddenly timid, and she drew back behind the door as she 
opened it wide to admit her father and Kinraid. 

Daniel Eobson came in bright and boisterous. He was 
pleased with his purchase, and had had some drink to cele- 
brate his bargain. He had ridden the new mare into 
Monkshaven, and left her at the smithy there until morning, 
to have her feet looked at, and to be new-shod. On his way 
from the town he had met Kinraid wandering about in 
search of Haytersbank Farm itself ; so he had just brought 
him along with him ; and here they were, ready for bread 
and cheese, and aught else the mistress would set before 
them. 

To Sylvia the sudden change into brightness and bustle 
occasioned by the entrance of her father and the specksioneer 
was like that which you may effect any winter’s night, when 
you come into a room where a great lump of coal lies hot and 
slumbering on the fire ; just break it up with a judicious blow 
from the poker, and the room, late so dark, and dusk, and 
lone, is full of life, and light, and warmth. 

She moved about with pretty household briskness, attend- 
ing to all her father’s wants. Kinraid’s eye watched her as 
she went backwards and forwards, to and fro, into the pantry, 
the back-kitchen, out of light into shade, out of the shadow 
into the broad firelight where he could see and note her 
appearance. She wore the high-crowned linen cap of that 
day, surmounting her lovely masses of golden-brown hair, 
rather than concealing them, and tied firm to her head by a 
broad blue ribbon. A long curl hung down on each side of 
her neck— her throat rather, for her neck was concealed by a 
little spotted handkerchief carefully pinned across at the waist 
of ber brown stuff gown. 

How well it was, thought the young girl, that she had 
doffed her bed-gown and linsey-woolsey petticoat, her work- 
ing-dress, and made herself smart in her stuff gown, when 
she sate down to work with her mother. 

By the time she could sit down again, her father and 
Kinraid had their glasses filled, and were talking of the 

103 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

relative merits of various kinds of spirits ; that led on to tales 
of smuggling, and the different contrivances by which they or 
their friends had eluded the preventive service ; the nightly 
relays of men to carry the goods inland ; the kegs of brandy 
found by certain farmers whose horses had gone so far in the 
night that they could do no work the next day ; the clever 
way in which certain women managed to bring in prohibited 
goods ; how, in fact, when a woman did give her mind to 
smuggling, she was more full of resources and tricks, and 
impudence, and energy than any man. There was no question 
of the morality of the affair ; one of the greatest signs of the 
real progress we have made since those times seems to be 
that our daily concerns of buying and selling, eating and 
drinking, whatsoever we do, are more tested by the real, 
practical standard of our religion than they were in the days 
of our grandfathers. Neither Sylvia nor her mother was in 
advance of their age. Both listened with admiration to the 
ingenious devices and acted, as well as spoken, lies, that were 
talked about as fine and spirited things. Yet, if Sylvia had 
attempted one tithe of this deceit in her every-day life, it 
would have half-broken her mother’s heart. But when the 
duty on salt was strictly and cruelly enforced, making it penal 
to pick up rough dirty lumps containing small quantities, that 
might be thrown out with the ashes of the brine-houses on the 
high-roads ; when the price of this necessary was so increased 
by the tax upon it as to make it an expensive, sometimes an 
unattainable, luxury to the working man. Government did 
more to demoralize the popular sens:) of rectitude and up- 
rightness than heaps of sermons could undo. And the same, 
though in smaller measure, was the consequence of many 
other taxes. It may seem curious to trace up the popular 
standard of truth to taxation ; but I do not think the idea 
would be so very far-fetched. 

From smuggling-adventures it was easy to pass on to 
stories of what had happened to Eobson, in his youth a 
sailor in the Greenland seas, and to Kinraid, now one of the 
best harpooners in any whaler that sailed off the coast. 

104 


The Specksioneer 

“ There’s three things to be afeared on,” said Eobson, 
authoritatively: “there’s t’ ice, that’s bad; there’s dirty 
weather, that s worse ; and there’s whales theirselves, as is 
t’ worst of all ; leastways, they was i’ my days ; t’ darned 
brutes may ha’ lamt better manners sin’. When I were 
young, they could niver be got to let theirsels be harpooned 
wi’out flounderin’ and makin’ play wi’ their tails and their 
fins, till t say were all in a foam ; and t’ boats’ crews was 
all o’er wi’ spray, which i’ them latitudes is a kind o’ shower- 
bath not needed.” 

“ Th’ whales hasn’t mended their manners, as you call it,” 
said Kinraid ; “ but th’ ice is not to be spoken lightly on. I 
were once in th’ ship John, of Hull ; and we were in good 
green water, and were keen after whales, and ne’er thought 
harm of a great grey iceberg as were on our lee-bow, a mile 
or so off ; it looked as if it had been there from the days of 
Adam, and were likely to see th’ last man out, and it ne’er a 
bit bigger nor smaller in all them thousands and thousands o’ 
years. Well, the fast-boats were out after a fish, and I were 
specksioneer in one ; and we were so keen after capturing 
our whale, that none on us ever saw that we were drifting 
away from them, right into deep shadow o’ th’ iceberg. But 
we were set upon our whale, and I harpooned it and, as 
soon as it were dead, we lashed its fins together, and fastened 
its tail to our boat; and then we took breath and looked 
about us ; and away from us a little space were th’ other boats, 
wi’ two other fish making play, and as likely as not to break 
loose, for I may say as I were th’ best harpooner on board 
the John, wi’out saying great things o’ mysel’. So I says, 

‘ My lads, one o’ you stay i’ th’ boat by this fish’ — the fins o’ 
which, as I said, I’d reeved a rope through mysel’, and which 
was as dead as Noah’s grandfather — ‘ and th’ rest on us shall 
go off and help th’ other boats wi’ their fish.’ For, you see, 
we had another boat close by in order to sweep th’ fish. (I 
suppose they swept fish i’ your time, master ?) ” 

“ Ay, ay ! ” said Eobson ; “ one boat lies still holding t* 
end o’ t’ line; t’ other makes a circuit round t’ fish.” 

105 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Well ! luckily for us we had our second boat, for we all 
got into it ; ne’er a man on us was left i’ th’ fast-boat. And 
says I, ‘ But who’s to stay by t’ dead fish ? ’ And no man 
answered, for they were all as keen as me for to go and help 
our mates ; and we thought as we could come back to our 
dead fish, as had a boat for a buoy, once we had helped our 
mate. So off we rowed, every man Jack on us, out o’ the 
black shadow o’ th’ iceberg, as looked as steady as th’ pole- 
star. Well ! we had na’ been a dozen fathoms away fra’ th’ 
boat as we had left, when crash ! down wi’ a roaring noise, 
and then a gulp of the deep waters, and then a shower o’ 
blinding spray ; and, when we had wiped our eyes clear, and 
getten our hearts down agen fra’ our mouths, there were 
never a boat nor a glittering belly o’ e’er a great whale to be 
seen ; but th’ iceberg were there, still and grim, as if a 
hundred ton or more had fallen off all in a mass, and crushed 
down boat, and fish, and all, into th’ deep water, as goes 
half through the earth in them latitudes. Th’ coal-miners 
round about Newcastle way may come upon our good boat 
if they mine deep enough, else ne’er another man will see her. 
And I left as good a clasp-knife in her as ever I clapt eyes on.” 

“ But what a mercy no man stayed in her,” said Bell. 

“ Why, mistress, I reckon we a’ must die some way ; and 
I’d as soon go down into the deep waters as be choked up wi’ 
moulds.” 

“ But it must be so cold,’^ said Sylvia, shuddering and 
giving a little poke to the fire to warm her fancy. 

“ Cold ! ” said her father, “ what do ye stay-at-homes 
know about cold, a should like to know ? If yo’d been where 
a were once, north latitude 81, in such a frost as ye ha’ niver 
known, no, not i’ deep winter, and it were June i’ them seas, 
and a whale i’ sight, and a were off in a boat after her : an’ 
t’ ill-mannered brute, as soon as she were harpooned, ups wi’ 
her big, awkward tail, and struck t’ boat i’ her stern, and 
chucks me out into t’ watter. That were cold, a can tell 
the’ 1 First, I smarted all ower me, as if my skin were 
suddenly stript off me ; and, next, ivery bone i’ my body had 

106 


The Specksioneer 

getten t’ toothache, and there were a great roar i’ my ears, 
an’ a great dizziness i’ my eyes ; an’ t’ boat’s crew kept 
thro win’ out their oars, an’ a kept clutchin’ at ’em, but a 
could na’ make out where they was, my eyes dazzled so wi’ 
t’ cold, an’ I thought I were bound for ‘ kingdom come,’ an’ 
a tried to remember t’ Creed, as a might die a Christian. But 
all a could think on was, ‘ What is your name, M or N ? ’ an’ 
just as a were giving up both words and life, they heaved me 
aboard. But, bless ye, they had but one oar; for they’d 
thrown a’ t’ others after me ; so yo’ may reckon, it were 
some time afore we could reach t’ ship ; an’, a’ve heerd tell, 
a were a precious sight to look on, for my clothes was just 
hard frozen to me, an’ my hair a’most as big a lump o’ ice as 
yon iceberg he was a-telling us on ; they rubbed me as missus 
theere were rubbing t’ hams yesterday, and gav’ me brandy ; 
an’ a’ve niver getten t’ frost out o’ my bones for a’ their 
rubbin’, and a deal o’ brandy as I ’ave ta’en sin’. Talk o’ 
cold ! it’s little yo’ women known o’ cold ! ” 

“ But there’s heat, too, i’ some places,” said Kinraid. “ I 
was once a voyage i’ an American. They goes for th’ most 
part south, to where you come round to th’ cold again ; and 
they’ll stay there for three year at a time, if need be, going 
into winter harbour i’ some o’ the Pacific Islands. Well, we 
were i’ th’ southern seas, a-seeking for good whaling- ground ; 
and, close on our larboard beam, there were a great wall o’ 
ice, as much as sixty feet high. And says our captain — as 
were a dare-devil, if ever a man were — ‘ There’ll be an opening 
in yon dark grey wall, and into that opening I’ll sail, if I 
coast along it till th’ day o’ judgment.’ But, for all our 
sailing, we never seemed to come nearer to th’ opening. The 
waters were rocking beneath us, and the sky were steady 
above us ; and th’ ice rose out o’ the waters, and seemed to 
reach up into the sky. We sailed on, and we sailed on, for 
more days nor I could count. Our captain were a strange, 
wild man ; but once he looked a little pale when he came upo’ 
deck after his turn-in, and saw the green-grey ice going 
straight up on our beam. Many of us thought as the ship 

107 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

were bewitched for th’ captain’s words ; and we got to speak 
low, and to say our prayers o’ nights, and a kind o’ dull 
silence came into th’ very air ; our voices did na’ rightly 
seem our own. And we sailed on, and we sailed on. All 
at once, th’ man as were on watch gave a cry: he saw a 
break in the ice, as we’d begun to think were everlasting ; 
and we all gathered towards the bows ; and the captain called 
to th’ man at the helm to keep her course, and cocked his 
head, and began to walk the quarter-deck jaunty again. And 
we came to a great cleft in th’ long, weary rock of ice ; and 
the sides o’ th’ cleft were not jagged, but went straight sharp 
down into’ th’ foaming waters. But we took but one look 
at what lay inside, for our captain, with a loud cry to God, 
bade- the helmsman steer nor’ards away fra’ th’ mouth o’ 
hell. We all saw wi’ our own eyes, inside that fearsome wall 
o’ ice — seventy mile long, as we could swear to — inside that 
grey, cold ice, came leaping flames, all red and yellow wi’ heat 
o’ some unearthly kind out o’ th’ very waters o’ the sea ; 
making our eyes dazzle wi’ their scarlet blaze, that shot up 
as high, nay, higher than th’ ice around, yet never so much 
as a shred on ’t was melted. They did say that some beside 
our captain saw the black devils dart hither and thither, 
quicker than the very flames themselves; anyhow, he saw 
them. And as he knew it were his own daring as had led 
him to have that peep at terrors forbidden to any on us afore 
our time, he just dwined away, and we hadn’t taken but one 
whale afore our captain died, and first mate took th’ com- 
mand. It were a prosperous voyage ; but, for all that. I’ll 
never sail those seas again, nor ever take wage aboard an 
American again.” 

“ Eh, dear ! but it’s awful t’ think o’ sitting wi’ a man 
that has seen th’ doorway into hell,” said Bell aghast. 

Sylvia had dropped her work, and sat gazing at Kinraid 
with fascinated wonder. 

Daniel was just a little annoyed at the admiration which 
his own wife and daughter were bestowing on the speck- 
sioneer’s wonderful stories, and he said — 

io8 


The Specksioneer 

“ Ay, ay. If a’d been a talker, ye’d ha’ thought a deal 
more on me nor ye’ve iver done yet. A’ve sen such things, 
and done such things.” 

“ Tell us, father 1 ” said Sylvia, greedy and breathless. 

“ Some on ’em is past telling,” he replied, “ an’ some is 
not to be had for t’ asking, seeing as how they might bring 
a man into trouble. But, as a said, if a had a fancy to reveal 
all as is on my mind a could make t’ hair on your heads lift 
up your caps — well, we’ll say an inch, at least. Thy mother, 
lass, has heerd one or two on ’em. Thou minds the story 
o’ my ride on a whale’s back. Bell? That’ll maybe be 
within this young fellow’s comprehension o’ t’ danger ; thou’s 
heerd me tell it, hastn’t ta ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Bell ; “ but it’s a long time ago ; when we 
was courting.” 

“ An’ that’s afore this young lass were born, as is a’most 
up to woman’s estate. But sin’ those days a ha’ been o’er 
busy to tell stories to my wife, an’ as a’ll warrant she’s for- 
gotten it ; an’ as Sylvia here niver heerd it, if yo’ll fill your 
glass, Kinraid, yo’ shall ha’ t’ benefit o’t. 

“A were a specksioneer mysel’, though, after that, arayther 
directed my talents inf f smuggling branch o’ my profession ; 
but a were once a whaling aboord f Aimwell of Whitby. An’ 
we was anchored off f coast o’ Greenland one season ; an 
we’d getten a cargo o’ seven whale ; but our captain, he were 
a keen-eyed chap, an’ niver above doin’ any man’s work ; an’ 

. once, seein’ a whale, he throws himself inf a boat an’ goes off 
to it, makin’ signals to me, an another specksioneer as were 
off for diversion i’ another boat, for to come after him sharp. 
Well, afore we comes alongside, captain had harpooned f 
■ fish ; an’ says he, ‘ Now, Eobson, all ready ! give into her 
again when she comes to f top ; ’ an’ I stands up, right leg 
foremost, harpoon all ready, as soon as iver I cotched a sight 
o’ f whale, but niver a fin could a see. ’Twere no wonder, 
for she were right below f boat in which a were ; and, when 
she wanted to rise, what does f great, ugly brute do but come 
wi’ her head, as is like cast iron, up bang again f bottom o’ 

109 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

t’ boat. I were thrown up in t’ air like a shuttle-cock, me 
an’ my line an’ my harpoon — up we goes, an’ many a good 
piece o’ timber wi’ us, an’ many a good fellow too ; but I had 
t’ look after mysel’, an’ a were up high i’ t’ air, afore I could 
say Jack Eobinson, an’ a thowt a were safe for another dive 
inf saut water ; but, i’ stead, a comes down plump on f back 
o’ f whale. Ay ! yo’ may stare, master, but theere a were, 
an’ main an’ slippery it were, only a sticks my harpoon intil 
her, an’ steadies myself’, an’ looks abroad o’er f vast o’ waves, 
and gets sea-sick in a manner, an’ puts up a prayer as she 
mayn’t dive, and it were as good a prayer for wishin’ it might 
come true as ivir f clargyman, an’ f clerk too, puts up i’ 
Monkshaven Church. Well, a reckon it were heerd, for all 
a were i’ them north latitudes, for she keeps steady, an’ a 
does my best for f keep steady ; an’ ’deed a was too steady, 
for a was fast wi’ f harpoon line, all knotted and tangled 
about me. T’ captain, he sings out for me to cut it ; but it’s 
easy singin’ out, and it’s noane so easy fumblin’ for your 
knife i’ f pocket o’ your drawers, when yo’ve f hold hard 
wi’ f other hand on f back of a whale, swimmin’ fourteen 
knots an hour. At last a thinks to mysel’, a can’t get free o’ 
f line, and f line is fast to f harpoon, and f harpoon is fast 
to f whale ; and f whale may go down fathoms deep when- 
iver f maggot stirs i’ her head ; an’ f watter’s cold, an’ noane 
good for drownin’ in ; a can’t get free o’ f line, and a connot get 
my knife out o’ my breeches-pocket, though f captain should 
ca’ it mutiny to disobey orders, and f line’s fast to f harpoon 
— let’s see if f harpoon’s fast to f whale. So a tugged, an’ 
a lugged, and f whale didn’t mistake it for ticklin’, but she 
cocks up her tail, and throws out showers o’ water as were 
ice or iver it touched me ; but a pulls on at f shank, an’ a 
were only afeard as she wouldn’t keep at f top wi’ it sticking 
in her ; but at last f harpoon broke, an’ just i’ time, for a 
reckon she was near as tired o’me as a were on her, and down 
she went ; an’ a had hard work to make for t’ boats as was 
near enough to catch me ; for what wi’ t’ whale’s being but 
slippery, an’ t’ watter being cold, an’ me hampered wi’ t’ line 

no 


The Specksioneer 

an t piece o’ harpoon, it’s a chance, missus, as thou had 
stopped an oud maid.” 

“Eh dear a’ me!” said Bell, “how well I mind yo’r 
telling me that tale 1 It were twenty-four year ago, come 
October. I thought I never could think enough on a man 
as had rode on a whale’s back 1 ” 

“ Yo’ may learn t’ way of winnin’ t’ women,” said Daniel, 
winking at the specksioneer. 

And Kinraid immediately looked at Sylvia. It was no 
premeditated action ; it came as naturally as wakening in 
the morning when his sleep was ended ; but Sylvia coloured 
as red as any rose at his sudden glance — coloured so deeply 
that he looked away until he thought she had recovered her 
composure, and then he sat gazing at her again. But not 
for long ; for Bell, suddenly starting up, did all but turn him 
out of the house. It was late, she said, and her master was 
tired, and they had a hard day before them next day ; and 
it was keeping Ellen Corney up ; and they had had enough 
to drink — more than was good for them, she was sure, for 
they had both been taking her in with their stories, which 
she had been foolish enough to believe. No one saw the real 
motive of all this almost inhospitable haste to dismiss her 
guest ; how the sudden fear had taken possession of her that 
he and Sylvia were “fancying each other.” Kinraid had 
said early in the evening that he had come to thank her for 
her kindness in sending the sausages, as he was off to his 
own home near Newcastle in a day or two. But now he 
said, in reply to Daniel Eobson, that he would step in 
another night before long, and hear some more of the old 
man’s yarns. 

Daniel had just had enough drink to make him very 
good-tempered, or else his wife would not have dared to 
have acted as she did ; and this maudlin amiability took 
the shape of hospitable urgency that Kinraid should come 
as often as he liked to Haytersbank ; come and make it his 
home when he was in these parts ; stay there altogether, 
and so on, till Bell fairly shut the outer door to, and locked 

III 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

it before the specksioneer had well got out of the shadow 
of their roof. 

All night long Sylvia dreamed of burning volcanoes 
springing out of icy southern seas. But, as in the speck- 
sioneer’ s tale the flames were peopled with demons, there 
was no human interest for her in the wondrous scene in 
which she was no actor, only a spectator. With daylight 
came wakening and little homely every-day wonders. Did 
Kinraid mean that he was going away really and entirely, 
or did he not ? Was he Molly Corney’s sweetheart, or was 
he not? When she had argued herself into certainty on 
one side, she suddenly wheeled about, and was just of the 
opposite opinion. At length she settled that it could not 
be settled until she saw Molly again ; so, by a strong gulping 
effort, she resolutely determined to think no more about him, 
only about the marvels he had told. She might think a 
little about them when she sat at night, spinning in silence 
by the household fire, or when she went out in the gloaming 
to call the cattle home to be milked, and, sauntered back 
behind the patient, slow-gaited creatures; and at times on 
future summer days, when, as in the past, she took her 
knitting out for the sake of the freshness of the faint sea- 
breeze, and, dropping down from ledge to ledge of the rocks 
that faced the blue ocean, established herself in a perilous 
nook that had been her haunt ever since her parents had 
come to Haytersbank Farm. From thence she had often 
seen the distant ships pass to and fro, with a certain sort 
of lazy pleasure in watching their swift tranquillity of 
motion, but no thought as to where they were bound to, 
or to what strange places they would penetrate, before they 
turned again, homeward bound. 


1X2 


A Refractory Pupil 


CHAPTEE X 

A REFEACTORY PUPIIi 

Sylvia was still full of the specksioneer and his stories, 
when Hepburn came up to give her the next lesson. But 
the prospect of a little sensible commendation for writing 
a whole page full of flourishing “ Abednegos ” had lost 
all the slight charm it had ever possessed. She was much 
more inclined to try and elicit some sympathy in her interest 
in the perils and adventures of the northern seas, than to 
bend and control her mind to the right formation of letters. 
Unwisely enough, she endeavoured to repeat one of the 
narratives that she had heard from Kinraid; and, when 
she found that Hepburn (if, indeed, he did not look upon 
the whole as a silly invention) considered it only as an 
interruption to the real business in hand, to which he would 
try to listen as patiently as he could, in the hope of Sylvia’s 
applying herself diligently to her copy-book when she had 
cleared her mind, she contracted her pretty lips, as if to 
check them from making any further appeals for sympathy, 
and set about her writing-lesson in a very rebellious frame 
of mind, only restrained by her mother’s presence from 
spoken mutiny. 

“ After all,” said she, throwing down her pen, and open- 
ing and shutting her weary, cramped hand, “ I see no good 
in tiring myself wi’ learning for t’ write letters when I’se 
never got one in a’ my life. What for should I write 
answers, when there’s niver a one writes to me? and, if I 
had one, I couldn’t read it ; it’s bad enough wi’ a book o’ 
print as I’ve niver seen afore, for there’s sure to be new- 
fangled words in ’t. I’m sure I wish the man were farred 
who plagues his brains wi’ striking out new words. Why 
can’t folks just ha’ a set on ’em for good and a’ ? ” 

“ Why ! you’ll be after using two or three hundred yoursel’ 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

every day as you live, Sylvie ; and yet I must use a great 
many as you never think on about t’ shop ; and t’ folks in 
t’ fields want their set, let alone the high English that 
parsons and lawyers speak.” 

“ Well, it’s weary work, is reading and writing. Cannot 
you learn me something else, if we mun do lessons ? ” 

“ There’s sums — and geography,” said Hepburn, slowly 
and gravely. 

“ Geography ! ” said Sylvia, brightening, and perhaps not 
pronouncing the word quite correctly. “ I’d like yo’ to learn me 
geography. There’s a deal o’ places I want to hear all about.” 

“ Well, I’ll bring up a book and a map next time. But 
I can tell you something now. There’s four quarters in the 
globe.” 

“ What’s that ? ” asked Sylvia. 

“ The globe is the earth ; the place we live on.” 

“ Go on. Which quarter is Greenland ? ” 

Greenland is no quarter. It is only a part of one.” 
Maybe it’s a half quarter.” 

“ No, not so much as that.” 

“ Half again ? ” 

“ No ! ” he replied, smiling a little. 

She thought he was making it into a very small place in 
order to tease her ; so she pouted a little, and then said — 

“ Greenland is all t’ geography I want to know. Except, 
perhaps, York. I’d like to learn about York, because of t’ 
races, and London, because King George lives there.” 

“ But if you learn geography at all, you must learn ’bout 
all places : which of them is hot, and which is cold, and how 
many inhabitants is in each, and what’s the rivers, and which 
is the principal towns.” 

“ I’m sure, Sylvie, if Philip will learn thee all that, thou’lt 
be such a sight o’ knowledge as ne’er a one o’ th’ Prestons has 
been sin’ my great-grandfather lost his property. I should 
be main proud o’ thee ; ’twould seem as if we was Prestons 
o’ Slaideburn once more.” 

“ I d do a deal to pleasure yo’, mammy ; but weary befa’ 
114 


A Refractory Pupil 

riches and land, if folks that has ’em is to write ‘ Abednegos ’ 
by t’ score, and to get hard words inf their brains, till they 
work like barm, and end wi’ cracking ’em.” 

This seemed to be Sylvia’s last protest against learning 
for the night ; for after this she turned docile, and really took 
pains to understand all that Philip could teach her, by means 
of the not unskilful, though rude, map which he drew for her 
with a piece of charred wood on his aunt’s dresser. He had 
asked his aunt’s leave before beginning what Sylvia called 
his “ dirty work ” ; but by-and-by even she became a little 
interested in starting from a great black spot called Monks- 
haven, and in the shaping of land and sea around that one 
centre. Sylvia held her round chin in the palms of her 
hands, supporting her elbows on the dresser ; looking down 
at the progress of the rough drawing in general, but now 
and then glancing up at him with sudden inquiry. All 
along he was not so much absorbed in his teaching as to be 
unconscious of her sweet proximity. She was in her best 
mood towards him; neither mutinous nor saucy; and he 
was striving with all his might to retain her interest, speak- 
ing better than ever he had done before— such brightness 
did love call forth! — -understanding what she would care 
to hear and to know; when, in the middle of an attempt 
at explaining the cause of the long polar days, of which 
she had heard from her childhood, he felt that her attention 
was no longer his ; that a discord had come in between 
their minds ; that she had passed out of his power. This 
certainty of intuition lasted but for an instant ; he had no 
time to wonder or to speculate as to what had affected her 
so adversely to his wishes, before the door opened and 
Kinraid came in. Then Hepburn knew that she must have 
heard his coming footsteps, and recognised them. 

He angrily stiffened himself up into coldness of de- 
meanour. Almost to his surprise, Sylvia’s greeting to the 
new-comer was as cold as his own. She stood rather 
behind him ; so perhaps she did not see the hand which 
Kinraid stretched out towards her, for she did not place 

115 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

her own little palm in it, as she had done to Philip an hour 
ago. And she hardly spoke, but began to pore over the 
rough black map, as if seized with strong geographical 
curiosity, or determined to impress Philip’s lesson deep on 
her memory. 

Still Philip was dismayed by seeing the warm welcome 
which Kinraid received from the master of the house, who 
came in from the back premises almost at the same time as 
the specksioneer entered at the front. Hepburn was uneasy, 
too, at finding Kinraid take his seat by the fireside, like one 
accustomed to the ways of the house. Pipes were soon pro- 
duced. Philip disliked smoking. Possibly Kinraid did so 
too ; but he took a pipe, at any rate, and lighted it, though 
he hardly used it at all, but kept talking to Farmer Bobson on 
sea affairs. He had the conversation pretty much to himself. 
Philip sat gloomily by ; Sylvia and his aunt were silent ; 
and old Bobson smoked his long, clay pipe, from time to 
time taking it out of his mouth to spit into the bright copper 
spittoon, and to shake the white ashes out of the bowl. 
Before he replaced it, he would give a short laugh of relish- 
ing interest in Kinraid’s conversation ; and now and then 
he put in a remark. Sylvia perched herself sideways on 
the end of the dresser, and made pretence to sew ; but 
Philip could see how often she paused in her work to 
listen. 

By-and-by, his aunt spoke to him, and they kept up a 
little side conversation, more because Bell Bobson felt that 
her nephew, her own flesh and blood, was put out, than for 
any special interest they either of them felt in what they 
were saying. Perhaps, also, they neither of them disliked 
showing that they had no great faith in the stories Kinraid 
was telling. Mrs. Bobson, at any rate, knew so little as to be 
afraid of believing too much. 

Philip was sitting on that side of the fire which was 
nearest to the window and to Sylvia, and opposite to the 
specksioneer. At length he turned to his cousin and said in 
a low voice — 

n6 


A Refractory Pupil 

“ I suppose we can’t go on with our spell at geography 
till that fellow’s gone ? ” 

The colour came into Sylvia’s cheeks at the words “ that 
fellow ” ; but she only replied with a careless air — 

“ Well, I’m one as thinks enough is as good as a feast ; 
and I’ve had enough of geography this one night, thank you 
kindly all the same.” 

Philip took refuge in offended silence. He was malici- 
ously pleased when his aunt made so much noise with her 
preparation for supper as quite to prevent the sound of the 
sailor’s words from reaching Sylvia’s ears. She saw that he 
was glad to perceive that her efforts to reach the remainder of 
the story were baulked ; this nettled her ; and, determined not 
to let him have his malicious triumph, and still more to put a 
stop to any attempt at private conversation, she began to sing 
to herself as she sat at her work ; till, suddenly seized with a 
desire to help her mother, she dexterously slipped down 
from her seat, passed Hepburn, and was on her knees toast- 
ing cakes right in front of the fire, and just close to her 
father and Kinraid. And now the noise that Hepburn had 
so rejoiced in proved his foe. He could not hear the little, 
merry speeches that darted backwards and forwards, as the 
specksioneer tried to take the toasting-fork out of Sylvia’s 
hand. 

“ How comes that sailor chap here ? ” asked Hepburn of 
his aunt. “ He’s none fit to be where Sylvia is ? ” 

“Nay, I dunnot know,” said she ; “ the Corneys made 
us acquaint first, and my master is quite fain of his com- 
pany.” 

“ And do you like him, too, aunt ? ” asked Hepburn, 
almost wistfully; he had followed Mrs. Eobson into the 
dairy on pretence of helping her. 

“ I’m none fond on him ; I think he tells us travellers’ 
tales, by way o’ seeing how much we can swallow. But the 
master and Sylvia think that there never was such a one.” 

“ I could show them a score as good as he down on the 
quay side.” 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Well, laddie, keep a calm sough. Some folk like some 
folk, and others don’t. Wherever I am, there’ll allays be a 
welcome for thee.” 

For the good woman thought that he had been hurt by 
the evident absorption of her husband and daughter with 
their new friend, and wished to make all easy and straight. 
But,'do what she would, he did not recover his temper all the 
evening ; he was uncomfortable, put out, not enjoying him- 
self, and yet he would not go. He was determined to assert 
his greater intimacy in that house by outstaying Kinraid. 
At length the latter got up to go ; but, before he went, he 
must needs bend over Sylvia and say something to her in so 
low a tone that Philip could not hear it ; and she, seized 
with a sudden fit of diligence, never looked up from her 
sewing; only nodded her head by way of reply. At .last he 
took his departure, after many a little delay, and many a 
quick return, which to the suspicious Philip seemed only 
pretences for taking stolen glances at Sylvia. As soon as he 
was decidedly gone, she folded up her work, and declared 
that she was so much tired that she must go to bed there 
and then. Her mother, too, had been dozing for the last 
half-hour, and was only too glad to see signs that she might 
betake herself to her natural place of slumber. 

“ Take another glass, Philip,” said Farmer Robson. 

But Hepburn refused the offer rather abruptly. He drew 
near to Sylvia instead. He wanted to make her speak to 
him, and he saw that she wished to avoid it. He took up 
the readiest pretext. It was an unwise one, as it proved ; for 
it deprived him of his chances of occasionally obtaining her 
undivided attention. 

“ I don’t think you care much for learning geography, 
Sylvie ? ” 

“ Not much to-night,” said she, making a pretence to 
yawn, yet looking timidly up at his countenance of dis- 
pleasure. 

“ Nor at any time,” said he, with growing anger ; “ nor 
for any kind of learning. I did bring some books the last 

ii8 


A Refractory Pupil 

time I came, meaning to teach you many a thing — but now 
I’ll just trouble you for my books ; I put them on yon shelf 
by the Bible.” 

He had a mind that she should bring them to him ; that, 
at any rate, he should have the pleasure of receiving them 
out of her hands. 

Sylvia did not reply, but went and took down the books 
with a languid, indifferent air. 

“And so you won’t learn any more geography,” said 
Hepburn. 

Something in his tone struck her, and she looked up 
in his face. There were marks of stern offence upon his 
countenance, and yet in it there was also an air of wistful 
regret and sadness that touched her. 

“ Yo’re niver angry with me, Philip ? Sooner than vex 
yo’. I’ll try and learn. Only, I’m just stupid ; and it mun 
be such a trouble to you.” 

Hepburn would fain have snatched at this half-proposal 
that the lessons should be continued, but he was too stubborn 
and proud to say anything. He turned away from the sweet 
pleading face without a word, to wrap up his books in a 
piece of paper. He knew that she was standing quite still 
by his side, though he made as if he did not perceive her. 
When he had done, he abruptly wished them all “ good- 
night,” and took his leave. 

There were tears in Sylvia’s eyes, although the feeling 
in her heart was rather one of relief. She had made a fair 
offer, and it had been treated with silent contempt. A few 
days afterwards, her father came in from Monkshaven 
market, and dropped out, among other pieces of news, that 
he had met Kinraid, who was bound for his own home at 
Cullercoats. He had desired his respects to Mrs. Eobson 
and her daughter ; and had bid Eobson say that he would 
have come up to Haytersbank to wish them good-bye ; but 
that, as he was pressed for time, he hoped they would excuse 
him. But Eobson did not think it worth while to give this 
long message of mere politeness. Indeed, as it did not relate 

119 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

to business, and was only sent to women, Eobson forgot all 
about it, pretty nearly as soon as it was uttered. So Sylvia 
went about fretting herself for one or two days, at her hero’s 
apparent carelessness of those who had at any rate treated 
him more like a friend than an acquaintance of only a few 
weeks’ standing ; and then, her anger quenching her incipient 
regard, she went about her daily business pretty much as 
though he had never been. > He had gone away out of her 
sight, into the thick mist of unseen life from which he had 
emerged — gone away without a word, and she might never 
see him again. But still there was a chance of her seeing 
him when he came to marry Molly Comey. Perhaps she 
should be bridesmaid, and then what a pleasant merry time 
the wedding-day would be! The Corneys were all such 
kind people, and in their family there never seemed to be 
the checks and restraints by which her own mother hedged 
her round. Then there came an overwhelming, self-reproach- 
ing burst of love for that “own mother;” a humiliation 
before her slightest wish, as penance for the moment’s un- 
spoken treason ; and thus Sylvia was led to request her 
cousin Philip to resume his lessons in so meek a manner, 
that he slowly and graciously acceded to a request which he 
was yearning to fulfil all the time. 

During the ensuing winter, all went on in a monotonous 
regularity at Haytersbank Farm for many weeks. Hepburn 
came and went, and thought Sylvia wonderfully improved 
in docility and sobriety; and perhaps also he noticed the 
improvement in her appearance. For she was at that age 
when a girl changes rapidly, and generally for the better. 
Sylvia shot up into a tall young woman ; her eyes deepened 
in colour, her face increased in expression, and a sort of 
consciousness of unusual good looks gave her a slight tinge 
of coquettish shyness with the few strangers whom she 
ever saw. Philip hailed her interest in geography as another 
sign of improvement. He had brought back his book of 
maps to the farm; and there he sat on many an evening 
teaching his cousin, who had strange fancies respecting the 

120 


A Refractory Pupil 

places about which she wished to learn, and was coolly in- 
different to the very existence of other towns, and countries, 
and seas far more famous in story. She was occasionally 
wilful, and at times very contemptuous as to the superior 
knowledge of her instructor; but, in spite of it all, Philip 
went regularly on the appointed evenings to Haytersbank 
— through keen black east wind, or driving snow, or slushing 
thaw ; for he liked dearly to sit a little behind her, with his 
arm on the back of her chair, she stooping over the out- 
spread map, with her eyes — could he have seen them — a 
good deal fixed on one spot in the map, not Northumber- 
land, where Kinraid was spending the winter, but those wild 
northern seas about which he had told them such wonders. 

One day towards spring, she saw Molly Corney coming 
towards the farm. The companions had not met for many 
weeks, for Molly had been from home visiting her relations 
in the north. Sylvia opened the door, and stood smiling 
and shivering on the threshold, glad to see her friend again. 
Molly called out, when a few paces off — 

“ Why, Sylvia, is that thee ? Why, how thou’rt growed, 
to be sure ! What a bonny lass thou is ! ” 

“ Dunnot talk nonsense to my lass,” said Bell Eobson, 
hospitably leaving her ironing and coming to the door ; but, 
though the mother tried to look as if she thought it non- 
sense, she could hardly keep down the smile that shone out 
of her eyes, as she put her hand on Sylvia’s shoulder, with a 
fond sense of proprietorship in what was being praised. 

“ Oh ! but she is,” persisted Molly. “ She’s grown quite 
a beauty sin’ I saw her. And if I don’t tell her so, the men 
will.” 

“ Be quiet wi’ thee,” said Sylvia, more than half offended, 
and turning away in a huff at the open barefaced admiration. 

“ Ay, but they will,” persevered Molly. “ Yo’ll not 
keep her long, Mistress Eobson. And, as mother says, yo’d 
feel it a deal more to have yer daughters left on hand.” 

“ Thy mother has many, I have but this one,” said Mrs. 
Eobson, with severe sadness ; for now Molly was getting to 

I2I 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

talk as she disliked. But Molly’s purpose was to bring the 
conversation round to her own affairs, of which she was 
very full. 

“ Yes ! I tell mother that, wi’ so many as she has, she 
ought to be thankful to t’ one as gets off quickest.” 

“Who? which is it?” asked Sylvia a little eagerly, 
seeing that there was news of a wedding behind the talk. 

“ Why ! who should it be but me ? ” said Molly, laughing 
a good deal, and reddening a little. “I’ve not gone fra’ 
home for nought ; I’se picked up a measter on my travels, 
leastways one as is to be.” 

“ Charley Kinraid,” said Sylvia, smiling, as she found 
that now she might reveal Molly’s secret, which hitherto she 
had kept sacred. 

“ Charley Kinraid be hung ! ” said Molly, with a toss of 
her head. “ Whatten good’s a husband who’s at sea half 
t’ year? Na, na, my measter is a canny Newcassel shop- 
keeper, on t’ Side. A reckon a’ve done pretty well for 
mysel’, and a’ll wish yo’ as good luck, Sylvia. For yo’ see ” 
(turning to Bell Eobson, who, perhaps, she thought would 
more appreciate the substantial advantages of her engage- 
ment than Sylvia), “ though Measter Brunton is near upon 
forty, if he’s a day, yet he turns over a matter of t’jvo hundred 
pound every year ; an’ he’s a good-looking man of his years 
too, an’ a kind, good-tempered fellow inf t’ bargain. He’s 
been married once, to be sure ; but his childer are dead a’ 
’cept one; an’ I don’t mislike childer either; an’ a’ll feed 
’em well, an’ get ’em to bed early, out o’ f road.” 

Mrs. Eobson gave her her grave good wishes ; but Sylvia 
was silent. She was disappointed; it was a coming-down 
from the romance, with the specksioneer for its hero. Molly 
laughed awkwardly, understanding Sylvia’s thoughts better 
than the latter imagined. 

“ Sylvia’s noane so well pleased. Why, lass ! it’s a’ f 
better for thee. There’s Charley to f fore now, which, if a’d 
married him, he’d not ha’ been ; and he’s said more nor once 
what a pretty lass yo’d grow into by-and-by.” 

122 


Visions of the Future 

Molly’s prosperity was giving her an independence and 
fearlessness of talk such as had seldom appeared hitherto, 
and certainly never before Mrs. Eobson. Sylvia was annoyed 
at Molly’s whole tone and manner, which were loud, laughing, 
and boisterous; but to her mother they were positively 
repugnant. She said shortly and gravely — 

“ Sylvia’s none so set upo’ matrimony ; she’s content to 
bide wi’ me and her father. Let a-be such talking, it’s not 
i’ my way.” 

Molly was a httle subdued ; but still her elation at the 
prospect of being so well married kept cropping out of all 
the other subjects which were introduced ; and, when she 
went away, Mrs. Eobson broke out in an unwonted strain of 
depreciation. 

“ That’s the way wi’ some lasses. They’re like a cock on 
a dunghill, when they’ve teased a silly chap into wedding 
’em. It’s cock-a-doodle-doo, I’ve cotched a husband, cock-a- 
doodle-doo, wi’ ’em. I’ve no patience wi’ such like ; I beg, 
Sylvie, thou’lt not get too thick wi’ Molly. She’s not pretty 
behaved, making such an ado about men-kind, as if they 
were two-headed calves to be run after.” 

“ But Molly’s a good-hearted lass, mother. Only I never 
dreamt but what she was troth-plighted wi’ Charley Kinraid,” 
said Sylvia meditatively. 

“ That wench ’ll be troth-plight to th’ first man as ’ll wed 
her and keep her i’ plenty; that’s a’ she thinks about,” 
replied Bell scornfully. 


CHAPTEE XI 

VISIONS OF THE FUTURE 

Before May was out, Molly Corney was married and had 
left the neighbourhood for Newcastle. Although Charley 
Kinraid was not the bridegroom, Sylvia’s promise to be 

123 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

bridesmaid was claimed. But the friendship brought on by 
the circumstances of neighbourhood and parity of age had 
become very much weakened in the time that elapsed between 
Molly’s engagement and wedding. In the first place, she 
herself was so absorbed in her preparations, so elated by her 
good fortune in getting married, and married, too, before her 
elder sister, that all her faults blossomed out full and strong. 
Sylvia felt her to be selfish ; Mrs. Eobson thought her not 
maidenly. A year before, she would have been far more 
missed and regretted by Sylvia ; now it was almost a relief 
to the latter to be freed from the perpetual calls upon her 
sympathy, from the constant demands upon her congratula- 
tions, made by one who had no thought or feeling to bestow 
on others ; at least, not in these weeks of “ cock-a-doodlc- 
doo-ing,’’ as Mrs. Eobson persisted in calling it. It was seldom 
that Bell was taken with a humorous idea ; but this once, 
having hatched a solitary joke, she was always clucking it 
into notice — to go on with her own poultry simile. 

Every time during that summer that Philip saw his 
cousin, he thought her prettier than she had ever been 
before ; some new touch of colour, some fresh sweet charm, 
seemed to have been added, just as every summer day calls 
out new beauty in the flowers. And this was not the addition 
of Philip’s fancy. Hester Eose, who met Sylvia on rare 
occasions, came back each time with a candid, sad acknow- 
ledgment in her heart that it was no wonder that Sylvia 
was so much admired and loved. 

One day Hester had seen her sitting near her mother in 
the market-place ; there was a basket by her, and over the 
clean cloth that covered the yellow pounds of butter she had 
laid the hedge -roses and honeysuckles she had gathered on 
the way into Monkshaven ; her straw hat was on her knee, 
and she was busy placing some of the flowers in the ribbon 
that went round it. Then she held it on her hand, and 
turned it round about, putting her head on one side, the 
better to view the effect ; and all this time Hester, peeping 
at her through the folds of the stuffs displayed in Foster’s 

124 


Visions of the Future 

windows, saw her with admiring, wistful eyes ; wondering, 
too, if Philip, at the other counter, were aware of his cousin’s 
being there, so near to him. Then Sylvia put on her hat 
and, looking up at Foster’s windows, caught Hester’s face of 
interest, and smiled and blushed at the consciousness of 
having been watched over her little vanities; and Hester 
smiled back, but rather sadly. Then a customer came in, 
and she had to attend to her business, which, on this as on 
all market-days, was great. In the midst, she was aware of 
Philip rushing bare-headed out of the shop, eager and delighted 
at something he saw outside. There was a little looking- 
glass hung against the wall on Hester’s side, placed in that 
retired corner in order that the good women who came to 
purchase head-gear of any kind might see the effect thereof, 
before they concluded their bargain. In a pause of custom, 
Hester, half ashamed, stole into this corner, and looked at 
herself in the glass. What did she see ? A colourless face ; 
dark, soft hair with no light gleams in it ; eyes that were 
melancholy instead of smiling ; a mouth compressed with a 
sense of dissatisfaction. This was what she had to compare 
with the bright bonnie face in the sunlight outside. She 
gave a gulp, to check the sigh that was rising, and came 
back, even more patient than she had been before this 
disheartening peep, to serve all the whims and fancies of 
purchasers. 

Sylvia herself had been rather put out by Philip’s way of 
coming to her. “ It made her look so silly,” she thought ; 
and “ what for must he make a sight of himself, coming 
among the market-folk in that-a-way ” ; and, when he took 
to admiring her hat, she pulled out the flowers in a pet, and 
threw them down, and trampled them under foot. 

“ What for art thou doing that, Sylvie ? ” said her mother. 
“ The flowers is well enough, though may be thy hat might 
ha’ been stained.” 

“I don’t like Phihp to speak to me so,” said Sylvia, 
pouting. 

“ How ? ” asked her mother. 

125 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

But Sylvia could not repeat his words. She hung her 
head, and looked red and pre -occupied, anything but pleased. 
Philip had addressed his first expression of personal admira- 
tion at an unfortunate time. 

It just shows what different views different men and 
women take of their fellow-creatures, when I say that Hester 
looked upon Philip as the best and most agreeable man she 
had ever known. He was not one to speak of himself with- 
out being questioned on the subject ; so his Haytersbank 
relations, only come into the neighbourhood in the last year 
or two, knew nothing of the trials he had surmounted, or the 
difficult duties he had performed. His aunt, indeed, had 
strong faith in him, both from partial knowledge of his 
character, and because he was of her own tribe and kin ; but 
she had never learnt the small details of his past life. Sylvia 
respected him as her mother’s friend, and treated him toler- 
ably well as long as he preserved his usual self-restraint of 
demeanour, but hardly ever thought of him when he was 
absent. 

Now Hester, who had watched him daily for all the years 
since he had first come as an errand-boy into Foster’s shop 
— watching with quiet, modest, yet observant eyes — had seen 
how devoted he was to his masters’ interests, had known of 
his careful and punctual ministration to his absent mother’s 
comforts, as long as she was living to benefit by his silent, 
frugal self-denial. 

His methodical appropriation of the few hours he could 
call his own was not without its charms to the equally 
methodical Hester; the way in which he reproduced any 
lately-acquired piece of knowledge — knowledge so weari- 
some to Sylvia — was delightfully instructive to Hester ; 
although, as she was habitually silent, it would have required 
an observer more interested in discovering her feelings than 
Philip was to have perceived the little flush on the pale 
cheek, and the brightness in the half-veiled eyes, whenever 
he was talking. She had not thought of love on either side. 
Love was a vanity, a worldliness not to be spoken about, or 

126 


Visions of the Future 

even thought about. Once or twice, before the Eobsons came 
into the neighbourhood, an idea had crossed her mind that 
possibly the quiet, habitual way in which she and Philip 
lived together might drift them into matrimony at some 
distant period ; and she could not bear the humble advances 
which Goulson, Philip’s fellow-lodger, sometimes made. 
They seemed to disgust her with him. 

But, after the Eobsons settled at Haytersbank, Philip’s 
evenings were so often spent there that any unconscious 
hopes Hester might, unawares, have entertained, died away. 
At first she had felt a pang akin to jealousy when she heard 
of Sylvia, the little cousin, who was passing out of childhood 
into womanhood. Once — early in those days — she had 
ventured to ask Philip what Sylvia was like. Philip had 
not warmed up at the question, and had given rather a 
dry catalogue of her features, hair, and height ; but Hester, 
almost to her own surprise, persevered, and jerked out the 
final question — 

“ Is she pretty ? ” 

Philip’s sallow cheek grew deeper by two or three shades ; 
but he answered with a tone of indifference — 

“ I believe some folks think her so.” 

“ But do you? ” persevered Hester, in spite of her being 
aware that he somehow disliked the question. 

“ There’s no need for talking o’ such things,” he answered, 
with abrupt displeasure. 

Hester silenced her curiosity from that time. But her 
heart was not quite at ease, and she kept on wondering 
whether Philip thought his little cousin pretty, until she saw 
her and him together on that occasion of which we have 
spoken, when Sylvia came to the shop to buy her new cloak ; 
and after that Hester never wondered whether Philip thought 
his cousin pretty or no, for she knew quite well. Bell Eobson 
had her own anxieties on the subject of her daughter’s in- 
creasing attractions. She apprehended the dangers conse- 
quent upon certain facts, by a mental process more akin to 
intuition than reason. She was uncomfortable, even while 

127 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

her motherly vanity was flattered, at the admiration Sylvia 
received from the other sex. This admiration was made 
evident to her mother in many ways. When Sylvia was 
with her at market, it might have been thought that the 
doctors had prescribed a diet of butter and eggs to all the 
men under forty in Monkshaven. At first it seemed to Mrs. 
Eobson but a natural tribute to the superior merit of her 
farm-produce ; but by degrees she perceived that, if Sylvia 
remained at home, she stood no better chance than her 
neighbours of an early sale. There were more customers 
than formerly for the fleeces stored in the wood-loft ; comely 
young butchers came after the calf almost before it had been 
decided to sell it ; in short, excuses were seldom wanting to 
those who wished to see the beauty of Haytersbank Farm. 
All this made Bell uncomfortable, though she could hardly 
have told what she dreaded. Sylvia herself seemed unspoilt 
by it, as far as her home relations were concerned. A little 
thoughtless she had always been, and thoughtless she was 
still ; but, as her mother had often said, “ Yo’ canna put old 
heads on young shoulders ” ; and, if blamed for her careless- 
ness by her parents, Sylvia was always as penitent as she 
could be for the time being. To be sure, it was only to her 
father and mother that she remained the same as she had 
been when an awkward lassie of thirteen. Out of the house 
there were the most contradictory opinions of her, especially 
if the voices of women were to be listened to. She was “ an 
ill-favoured, overgrown thing ” ; “ just as bonny as the first 
rose i’ June, and as sweet i’ her nature as t’ honeysuckle 
a-climbing round it ” ; she was “ a vixen, with a tongue sharp 
enough to make yer very heart bleed ” ; she was “ just a 
bit o’ sunshine wheriver she went ” ; she was sulky, lively, 
witty, silent, affectionate, or cold-hearted, according to the 
person who spoke about her. In fact, her pecularity 
seemed to be this — that every one who knew her talked 
about her either in praise or blame ; in church, or in market, 
she unconsciously attracted attention ; they could not forget 
her presence, as they could that of other girls perhaps more 

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Visions of the Future 

personally attractive. Now all this was a cause of anxiety to 
her mother, who began to feel as if she would rather have 
had her child passed by in silence than so much noticed. 
Bell’s opinion was, that it was creditable to a woman to go 
through life in the shadow of obscurity — never named except 
in connection with good housewifery, husband, or children. 
Too much talking about a girl, even in the way of praise, 
disturbed Mrs. Eobson’s opinion of her ; and, when her neigh- 
bours told her how her own daughter was admired, she would 
reply coldly, “ She’s just well enough,” and change the subject 
of conversation. But it was quite different with her husband. 
To his looser, less restrained mind, it was agreeable to hear 
of, and still more to see, the attention which his daughter’s 
beauty received. He felt it as reflecting consequence on him- 
self. He had never troubled his mind with speculations as 
to whether he himself was popular, still less whether he was 
respected. He was pretty welcome wherever he went, as a 
jovial, good-natured man, who had done adventurous and 
illegal things in his youth, which in some measure entitled 
him to speak out his opinions on life in general in the authori- 
tative manner he generally used ; but, of the two, he preferred 
consorting with younger men to taking a sober stand of 
respectability with the elders of the place ; and he perceived, 
without reasoning upon it, that the gay, daring spirits were 
more desirous of his company when Sylvia was by his side 
than at any other time. One or two of these would saunter 
up to Haytersbank on a Sunday afternoon, and lounge round 
his fields with the old farmer. Bell kept herself from the 
nap which had been her weekly solace for years, in order to 
look after Sylvia ; and on such occasions she always turned 
as cold a shoulder to the visitors as her sense of hospitality 
and of duty to her husband would permit. But if they did 
not enter the house, old Eobson would always have Sylvia 
with him when he went the round of his land. Bell could 
see them from the upper window : the young men standing 
in the attitudes of listeners, while Daniel laid down the law 
oia some point, enforcing his words by pantomimic actions 

129 K 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

with his thick stick ; and Sylvia, half turning away as if from 
some too admiring gaze, was possibly picking flowers out of 
the hedgebank. These Sunday afternoon strolls were the 
plague of Bell’s life that whole summer. Then it took as 
much of artifice as was in the simple woman’s nature to 
keep Daniel from insisting on having Sylvia’s company every 
time he went down to Mfinkshaven. And here, again, came 
a perplexity, the acknowledgment of which in distinct thought 
would have been an act of disloyalty, according to Bell’s 
conscience. If Sylvia went with her father, he never drank 
to excess ; and that was a good gain to health at any rate 
(drinking was hardly a sin against morals in those days, and 
in that place) ; so, occasionally, she was allowed to accom- 
pany him to Monkshaven as a check upon his folly ; for he 
was too fond and proud of his daughter to disgrace her by 
any open excess. But, one Sunday afternoon early in 
November, Philip came up before the time at which he 
usually paid his visits. He looked grave and pale ; and his 
aunt began — 

“ Why, lad ! what’s been a-do ? Thou’rt looking as peaked 
and pined as a Methody preacher after a love-feast, when 
he’s talked hisself to Death’s door. Thee dost na’ get good 
milk enow, that’s what it is — such stuff as Monkshaven folks 
put up wi’ ! ” 

“No, aunt ; I’m quite well. Only I’m a bit put out — 
vexed like at what I’ve heerd about Sylvie.” 

His aunt’s face changed immediately. 

“And whatten folk say of her, next thing ? ” 

“ Oh,” said Philip, struck by the difference of look and 
manner in his aunt, and subdued by seeing how instantly she 
took alarm. “ It were only my uncle ; — he should na’ take 
a girl like her to a public. She were wi’ him at t’ ‘ Admiral’s 
Head’ upo’ All Souls’ Day — that were all. There were 
many a one there beside — it were statute-fair ; but such a 
one as our Sylvie ought not to be cheapened wi’ t’ rest.” 

“ And he took her there, did he ? ” said Bell in severe 
meditation. “ I had never no opinion o’ th’ wenches as ’ll 

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Visions of the Future 

set theirselves to be hired for servants i’ th’ fair ; they’re a 
bad lot, as cannot find places for theirselves — ’bout goin’ and 
stannin’ to be stared at by folk, and grinnin’ wi’ th’ plough- 
lads when no one’s looking ; it’s a bad look-out for t’ missus 
as takes one o’ these wenches for a servant; and dost ta 
mean to say as my Sylvie went and demeaned hersel’ to 
dance and marlock wi’ a’ th’ fair-folk at th’ ‘ Admiral’s 
Head ’ ? ” 

“ No, no, she did na’ dance ; she barely set foot i’ th’ 
room ; but it were her own pride as saved her ; uncle would 
niver ha’ kept her from it ; for he had fallen in wi’ Hayley 
o’ Seabum and one or two others, and they were having a 
glass i’ t’ bar ; and Mrs. Lawson, t’ landlady, knew how there 
was them who would come and dance -among parish ’prentices, 
if need were, just to get a word or a look wi’ Sylvie ! So she 
tempts her in, saying that the room were all smartened and 
fine wi’ flags ; and there was them in the room as told me 
that they never were so startled as when they saw our 
Sylvie’s face peeping in among all t’ flustered maids and 
men, rough and red wi’ weather and drink ; and Jem Mac- 
bean, he said she were just like a bit o’ apple-blossom among 
peonies ; and some man, he didn’t know who, went up and 
spoke to her ; an’ either at that, or at some o’ t’ words she 
heard — for they’d got a good way on afore that time — she 
went quite white and mad, as if fire were coming out of her 
eyes, and then she turned red and left the room, for all t’ 
landlady tried to laugh it off and keep her in.” 

“I’ll be down to Monkshaven before I’m a day older, 
and tell Margaret Lawson some on my mind as she’ll not 
forget in a hurry.” 

Bell moved as though she would put on her cloak and 
hood there and then. 

“Nay, it’s not in reason as a woman i’ that line o’ life 
shouldn’t try to make her house agreeable,” said Philip. 

“ Not wi’ my wench,” said Bell in a determined voice. 

Philip’s information had made a deeper impression on 
his aunt than he intended. He himself had been annoyed 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

more at the idea that Sylvia would be spoken of as having 
been at a rough piece of rustic gaiety — a yearly festival for 
the lower classes of Yorkshire servants, out-door as welt as 
in-door — than at the affair itself; for he had learnt from 
his informant how instantaneous her appearance had been. 
He stood watching his aunt’s troubled face, and almost 
wishing that he had not spoken. At last she heaved a deep 
sigh; and, stirring the fire, as if by this little household 
occupation to compose her mind, she said — 

“ It’s a pity as wenches aren’t lads, or married folk. I 

could ha’ -wished — but it were the Lord’s will It would ha’ 

been summit to look to, if she’d had a brother. My master 
is so full on his own thoughts, yo’ see, he’s no mind left for 
thinking on her, what- wi’ th’ oats, and th’ wool, and th’ 
young colt, and his venture i’ th’ Imcky Mary.'* 

She really believed her husband to have the serious and 
important occupation for his mind that she had been taught 
to consider befitting the superior intellect of the masculine 
gender; she would have taxed herself severely, if, even in 
thought, she had blamed him ; and Philip respected her feel- 
ings too much to say that Sylvia’s father ought to look after 
her more closely, if he made such a pretty creature so con- 
stantly his companion ; yet some such speech was only just 
pent within Philip’s closed lips. Again his aunt spoke — 

“ I used to think as she and yo’ might fancy one another ; 
but thou’rt too old-fashioned like for her ; ye would na’ suit ; 
and it’s as weU, for now I can say to thee, that I would take 
it very kindly if thou would’ st look after her a bit.” 

Philip’s countenance fell into gloom. He had to gulp 
down certain feelings before he could make answer with 
discretion. 

“ How can I look after her, and me tied to the shop more 
and more every day ? ” 

“ I could send her on a bit of an errand to Fosters’ ; and 
then, for sure, yo’ might keep an eye upon her when she’s in 
th’ town, and just walk a bit way with her when she’s in 
th’ street, and keep t’ other fellows off her— Ned Simpson, t’ 

132 


Visions of the Future . 

butcher, in ’special, for folks do say he means no good by any 
girl he goes wi’ — and I’ll ask father to leave her a bit more 
wi’ me. They’re coming down th’ brow, and Ned Simpson 
wi’ them. Now, Philip, I look to thee to do a brother’s part 
by my wench, and warn off all as isn’t fit.” 

The door opened, and the coarse, strong voice of Simpson 
made itself heard. He was a stout man, comely enough as 
to form and feature, but with a depth of colour in his face 
that betokened the coming- on of the habits of the sot. His 
Sunday hat was in his hand, and he smoothed the long nap 
of it, as he said, with a mixture of shyness and familiarity — 

“ Sarvant, missus. Yo’r measter is fain that I should 
come in an’ have a drop ; no offence, I hope ? ” 

Sylvia passed quickly through the house-place, and went 
upstairs without speaking to her cousin Philip or to any one. 
He sat on, disliking the visitor, and almost disliking his 
hospitable uncle for having brought Simpson into the house ; 
sympathising with his aunt in the spirit which prompted her 
curt answers ; and in the intervals of all these feelings wonder- 
ing what ground she had for speaking as if she had now given 
up all thought of Sylvia and him ever being married, and in 
what way he was too “ old-fashioned.” 

Eobson would gladly have persuaded Philip to join him 
and Simpson in their drink ; but Philip was in no sociable 
mood, and sate a little aloof, watching the staircase down 
which sooner or later Sylvia must come ; for, as perhaps has 
been already said, the stairs went up straight out of the 
kitchen. And at length his yearning watch was rewarded ; 
first, the little, pointed toe came daintily in sight, then the 
trim ankle in the tight, blue stocking, the wool of which was 
spun and the web of which was knitted by her mother’s care- 
ful hands ; then the full, brown stuff petticoat, the arm 
holding the petticoat back in decent folds, so as not to 
encumber the descending feet ; the slender neck and shoulders 
hidden under the folded square of fresh white muslin ; the 
crowning beauty of the soft, innocent face radiant in colour, 
and with the light brown curls clustering around. She made 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

her way quickly to Philip’s side ; how his heart beat at her 
approach — and even more when she entered into a low-voiced 
tete-a-tete ! 

“ Isn’t he gone yet ? ” said she. “ I cannot abide him : 
I could ha’ pinched father when he asked him for t’ come 
in.” 

“ Maybe, he’ll not stay long,” said Philip, hardly under- 
standing the meaning of what he said, so sweet was it to have 
her making her whispered confidences to him. 

But Simpson was not going to let her alone in the dark 
corner -between the door and the window. He began paying 
her some coarse country compliments — too strong in their 
direct flattery for even her father’s taste, more especially as 
he saw by his wife’s set lips and frowning brow how much 
she disapproved of their visitor’s style of conversation. 

“ Come, measter, leave t’ lass alone ; she’s set up enough 
a’ready, her mother makes such a deal on her. Yo’ an’ me’s 
men for sensible talk at our time o’ life. An’, as I was say- 
ing, t’ horse was a weaver, if iver one was, as any one could 
ha’ told as had come within a mile on him.” 

And in this way the old farmer and the bluff butcher 
chatted on about horses, while Philip and Sylvia sate together ; 
he turning over all manner of hopes and projects for the 
future, in spite of his aunt’s opinion that he was too “ old- 
fashioned ” for her dainty, blooming daughter. Perhaps, too, 
Mrs. Robson saw some reason for changing her mind on this 
head as she watched Sylvia this night; for she accompanied 
Philip to the door, when the time came for him to start 
homewards, and bade him “ good-night ” with unusual 
fervour, adding — 

“Thou’st been a deal o’ comfort to me, lad — a’ most as 
one as if thou wert a child o’ my own, as at times I could 
welly think thou art to be. Anyways, I trust to thee to 
look after the lile lass, as has no brother to guide her among 
men — and men’s very kittle for a woman to deal wi’ ; but, if 
thou’lt have an eye on whom she consorts wi’, my mind ’ll be 
easier.” 


134 


Visions of the Future 

Philip s heart beat fast ; but his voice was as calru as usual 
when he replied — 

“ I’d just keep her a bit aloof from Monkshaven folks ; a 
lass is always the more thought on for being chary of herself ; 
and, as for t’ rest, I’ll have an eye to the folks she goes among, 
and, if I see that they don’t befit her. I’ll just give her a 
warning, for she’s not one to like such chaps as yon Simpson 
there ; she can see what’s becoming in a man to say to a lass, 
and what’s not.” 

Philip set out on his two-mile walk home with a tumult 
of happiness in his heart. He was not often carried away 
by delusions of his own creating ; to-night, he thought he had 
good ground for believing that by patient self-restraint he 
might win Sylvia’s love. A year ago, he had nearly earned 
her dislike by obtruding upon her looks and words betoken- 
ing his passionate love. He alarmed her girlish coyness, as 
well as wearied her with the wish he had then felt that she 
should take an interest in his pursuits. But, with unusual 
wisdom, he had perceived his mistake ; it was many months 
now since he had betrayed, by word or look, that she was 
anything more to him than a little cousin to be cared for and 
protected when need was. The consequence was that she 
had become tamed, just as a wild animal is tamed ; he had 
remained tranquil and impassive, almost as if he did not 
perceive her shy advances towards friendliness. These 
advances were made by her after the lessons had ceased. 
She was afraid lest he was displeased with her behaviour in 
rejecting his instructions, and was not easy till she was at 
peace with him; and now, to all appearance, he and she 
were perfect friends, but nothing more. In his absence, she 
would not allow her young companions to laugh at his grave 
sobriety of character, and somewhat prim demeanour ; she 
would even go against her conscience, and deny that she 
perceived any peculiarity. When she wanted it, she sought 
his advice on such small subjects as came up in her daily 
life ; and she tried not to show signs of weariness when he 
used more words — and more difficult words — than were 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

necessary to convey his ideas. But her ideal husband was 
different from Philip in every point ; the two images never 
for an instant merged into one. To Philip she was the only 
woman in the world ; it was the one subject on which he 
dared not consider, for fear that both conscience and judg- 
ment should decide against him, and that he should be 
convinced against his will that she was an unfit mate for 
him, that she never would be his, and that it was waste of 
time and life to keep her shrined in the dearest sanctuary of 
his being, to the exclusion of all the serious and religious 
aims which, in any other case, he would have been the first 
to acknowledge as the object he ought to pursue. For he 
had been brought up among the Quakers, and shared in 
their austere distrust of a self-seeking spirit ; yet what else 
but self-seeking was his passionate prayer, “ Give me Sylvia, 
or else I die ” ? No other vision had ever crossed his 
masculine fancy for a moment ; his was a rare and constant 
love that deserved a better fate than it met with. At this 
time his hopes were high, as I have said, not merely as to 
the growth of Sylvia’s feelings towards him, but as to the 
probability of his soon being in a position to place her in 
such comfort, as his wife, as she had never enjoyed before. 

For the brothers Foster were thinking of retiring from 
business, and relinquishing the shop to their two shopmen, 
Philip Hepburn and William Coulson. To be sure, it was 
only by looking back for a few months, and noticing chance 
expressions and small indications, that this intention of theirs 
could be discovered. But every step they took tended this 
way ; and Philip knew their usual practice of deliberation too 
well to feel in the least impatient for the quicker progress of 
the end which he saw steadily approaching. The whole 
atmosphere of life among the Friends at this date partook 
of this character of self -repression, and both Coulson and 
Hepburn shared in it. Coulson was just as much aware of 
the prospect opening before him as Hepburn; but they 
never spoke together on the subject, although their mutual 
knowledge might be occasionally implied in their conversation 

136 


New Year’s F&te 

on their future lives. Meanwhile the Fosters were impart- 
ing more of the background of their business to their suc- 
cessors. For the present, at least, the brothers meant to 
retain an interest in the shop, even after they had given up 
the active management ; and they sometimes thought of 
setting up a separate establishment as bankers. The separa- 
tion of the business — the introduction of their shopmen to 
the distant manufacturers who furnished their goods (in 
those days the system of “ travellers ” was not so widely 
organized as it is at present)— all these steps were in 
gradual progress ; and already Philip saw himself in imagi- 
nation in the dignified position of joint master of the principal 
shop in Monkshaven, with Sylvia installed as his wife, with 
certainly a silk gown, and possibly a gig, at her disposal. In 
all Philip’s visions of future prosperity it was Sylvia who was 
to be aggrandized by them ; his own life was to be spent, 
as it was now, pretty much between the four shop walls. 


CHAPTER XII 

NEW year’s F^1TE 

All this enlargement of interest in the shop occupied Philip 
fully for some months after the period referred to in the 
previous chapter. Remembering his last conversation with 
his aunt, he might have been uneasy at his inability to 
perform his promise and look after his pretty cousin, but 
that about the middle of November Bell Robson had fallen 
ill of a rheumatic fever, and that her daughter had been 
entirely absorbed in nursing her. No thought of company 
or gaiety was in Sylvia’s mind as long as her mother’s illness 
lasted; vehement in all her feelings, she discovered in the 
dread of losing her mother how passionately she was attached 
to her. Hitherto she had supposed, as children so often do, 

137 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

that her parents would live for ever ; and now, when it was a 
question of days whether by that time the following week 
her mother might not be buried out of her sight for ever, 
she clung to every semblance of service to be rendered, or 
affection shown, as if she hoped to condense the love and 
care of years into the few days only that might remain. 
Mrs. Eobson lingered on, began slowly to recover, and 
before Christmas was again sitting by the fireside in the 
house-place, wan and pulled down, muffled up with shawls 
and blankets, but still there once more, where not long 
before Sylvia had scarcely expected to see her again. Phihp 
came up that evening, and found Sylvia in wild spirits. She 
thought that everything was done, now that her mother had 
once come downstairs again; she laughed with glee; she 
kissed her mother ; she shook hands with Philip ; she almost 
submitted to a speech of more than usual tenderness from 
him ; but, in the midst of his words, her mother’s pillows 
wanted arranging and she went to her chair, paying no more 
heed to his words than if they had been addressed to the cat 
which, lying on the invalid’s knee, was purring out her welcome 
to the weak hand feebly stroking her back. Eobson himself 
soon came in, looking older and more subdued since Philip 
had seen him last. He was very urgent that his wife should 
have some spirits and water ; but on her refusal, almost as 
if she loathed the thought of the smell, he contented himself 
with sharing her tea, though he kept abusing the beverage as 
“ washing the heart out of a man,” and attributing all the 
degeneracy of the world, growing up about him in his old age, 
to the drinking of such slop. At the same time, his little self- 
sacrifice put him in an unusually good temper ; and, mingled 
with his real gladness at having his wife once more on the 
way to recovery, brought back some of the old charm of 
tenderness combined with light-heartedness, which had won 
the sober Isabella Preston long ago. He sat by her side, 
holding her hand, and talking of old times to the young 
couple opposite ; of his adventures and escapes, and how he 
had won his wife. She, faintly smiling at the remembrance 

13S 


New Year’s Fete 

of those days, yet half-ashamed at having the little details of 
her courtship revealed, from time to time kept saying — 

“ For shame wi’ thee, Daniel — I never did,” and faint 
denials of a similar kind. 

“ Niver believe her, Sylvie. She were a woman ; and 
there’s niver a woman but likes to have a sweetheart, and 
can tell when a chap’s castin’ sheep’s-eyes at her ; ay, 
an’ afore he knows what he’s about hissen. She were a 
pretty one then, was my old ’ooman, an’ liked them as 
thought her so ; though she did cock her head high, as bein’ 
a Preston, which were a family o’ standin’ and means i’ 
those parts aforetime. There’s Philip there. I’ll warrant, is 
as proud o’ bein’ Preston by t’ mother’s side, for it runs i’ t’ 
blood, lass. A can tell when a child of a Preston tak’s to 
being proud o’ their kin, by t’ cut o’ their nose. Now 
Philip’s and my missus has a turn beyond common i’ their 
nostrils, as if they was sniffin’ at t’ rest of us world, an’ seein’ 
if we was good enough for ’em to consort wi’. Thee an’ me, 
lass, is Eobsons — oat- cake folk, while they’s pie-crust. 
Lord ! how Bell used to speak to me, as short as though a 
wasn’t a Christian, an’ a’ t’ time she loved me as her very 
life, an’ well a knew it, tho’ a’d to mak’ as tho’ a didn’t. 
Philip, when thou goes courtin’, come t’ me, and a’ll give 
thee many a wrinkle. A’ve shown, too, as a know well how 
t’ choose a good wife by tokens an’ signs, hannot a, missus ? 
Come t’ me, my lad, and show me t’ lass, an’ a’ll just tak’ a 
squint at her, an’ tell yo’ if she’ll do or not ; an’ if she’ll do, 
a’ll teach yo’ how to win her.” 

“ They say another o’ yon Corney girls is going to be 
married,” said Mrs. Eobson, in her faint, deliberate tones. 

“ By gosh, an’ it’s well thou’st spoke on ’em ; a was as 
clean forgettin’ it as iver could be. A met Nanny Corney i’ 
Monkshaven last neet, and she axed me for t’ let our Sylvia 
come o’ New Year’s Eve, an’ see Molly an’ her man, that ’n 
as is wed beyond Newcassel; they’ll be over at her feyther’s, 
for t’ New Year, an’ there’s to be a merry-making.” 

Sylvia’s colour came, her eyes brightened, she would have 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

liked to go ; but the thought of her mother came across her, 
and her features fell. Her mother’s eye caught the look and 
the change, and knew what both meant as well as if Sylvia 
had spoken out. 

“ Thursday sen’night,” said she. “ I’ll he rare and strong 
by then, and Sylvie shall go play hersen ; she’s been nurse- 
tending long enough.” 

“ You’re but weakly yet,” said Philip shortly ; he did not 
intend to say it, but the words seemed to come out in spite 
of himself. 

“ A said as our lass should come, God willin’, if she only 
came and went, an’ thee goin’ on sprightly, old ’ooman. An’ 
a’ll turn nurse-tender mysen for t’ occasion, ’special if thou 
can stand t’ good honest smell o’ whisky by then. So, my 
lass, get up thy smart clothes, and cut t’ best on ’em out, as 
becomes a Preston. Maybe, a’ll fetch thee home, an’ maybe 
Philip will convoy thee ; for Nanny Corney bade thee to t’ 
merry-making, as well. She said her measter would be 
seein’ thee about t’ wool afore then.” 

“ I don’t think as I can go,” said Philip, secretly pleased 
to know that he had the opportunity in his power ; “ I’m 
half bound to go wi’ Hester Eose and her mother to t’ 
watch-night ? ” 

“ Is Hester a Methodee ? ” asked Sylvia in surprise. 

“ No ! she’s neither a Methodee, nor a Friend, nor a 
Church person ; but she’s a turn for serious things, choose 
wherever they’re found.” 

“ Well, then,” said good-natured Farmer Eobson, only 
seeing the surface of things, “ a’ll make shift to fetch Sylvie 
back fra’ t’ merry-making, an’ thee an’ thy young woman 
can go to t’ . prayer-makin’ ; it’s every man to his taste, 
say I.” 

But in spite of his half-promise, nay against his natural 
inclination, Philip was lured to the Corneys’ by the thought 
of meeting Sylvia, of watching her and exulting in her 
superiority in pretty looks and ways to all the other girls 
likely to be assembled. Besides (he told his conscience) he 

140 


/ 


New Year’s F^te 

was pledged to his aunt to watch over Sylvia like a brother. 
So in the interval before New Year’s Eve, he silently revelled 
as much as any young girl in the anticipation of the happy 
coming time. 

At this hour, all the actors in this story having played 
out their parts and gone to their rest, there is something 
touching in recording the futile efforts made by Philip to win 
from Sylvia the love he yearned for. But, at the time, any 
one who had watched him might have been amused to see 
the grave, awkward, plain young man studying patterns and 
colours for a new waistcoat, with his head a little on one 
side, after the meditative manner common to those who are 
choosing a new article of dress. They might have smiled, 
could they have read in his imagination the frequent rehear- 
sals of the coming evening, when he and she should each be 
dressed in their gala-attire, to spend a few hours under a 
bright, festive aspect among people whose company would 
oblige them to assume a new demeanour towards each other — 
not so famihar as their everyday manner, but allowing more 
scope for the expression of rustic gallantry. Philip had so 
seldom been to anything of the kind, that, even had Sylvia 
not been going, he would have felt a kind of shy excitement 
at the prospect of anything so unusual. But, indeed, if 
Sylvia had not been going, it is very probable that Philip’s 
rigid conscience might have been aroused to the question 
whether such parties did not savour too much of the world 
for him to form one in them. 

As it was, however, the facts to him were simply these. 
He was going, and she was going. The day before, he had 
hurried off to Haytersbank Farm with a small paper parcel 
in his pocket — a ribbon, with a little briar-rose pattern run- 
ning upon it, for Sylvia. It was the first thing he had ever 
ventured to give her — the first thing of the kind would, 
perhaps, be more accurate ; for when he had first begun to 
teach her any lessons, he had given her Mavor’s Spelling- 
book, but that he might have done, out of zeal for knowledge, 
to any dunce of a little girl of his acquaintance. This ribbon 

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was quite a different kind of present ; he touched it tenderly, 
as if he were caressing it, when he thought of her wearing 
it ; the briar-rose (sweetness and thorns) seemed to be the 
very flower for her ; the soft green ground on which the 
pink and brown pattern ran, was just the colour to show off 
her complexion. And she would in a way belong to him : 
her cousin, her mentor, her chaperon, her lover! While 
others only admired, he might hope to appropriate ; for of 
late they had been such happy friends 1 Her mother 
approved of him ; her father liked him. A few months, 
perhaps only a few weeks, more of self-restraint ; and then 
he might go and speak openly of his wishes, and of what he 
had to offer. For he had resolved, with the quiet force of 
his character, to wait until all was finally settled between 
him and his masters, before he declared himself to either 
Sylvia or her parents. The interval was spent in patient, 
silent endeavours to recommend himself to her. 

He had to give his ribbon to his aunt in charge for 
Sylvia, and that was a disappointment to his fancy, although 
he tried to reason himself into thinking that it was better so. 
He had not time to wait for her return from some errand 
on which she had gone ; for he was daily more and more 
occupied with the affairs of the shop. 

Sylvia made many a promise to her mother, and more to 
herself, that she would not stay late at the party ; but she 
might go as early as she liked; and, before the December 
daylight had faded away, Sylvia presented herself at the 
Corneys’. She was to come early in order to help to set 
out the supper, which was arranged in the large old flagged 
parlour, which served as best bed-room as well. It opened 
out of the house-place, and was the sacred room of the 
house, as chambers of a similar description are still con- 
sidered in retired farmhouses in the north of England. They 
are used on occasions like the one now described for pur- 
poses of hospitality ; but in the state bed, overshadowing so 
large a portion of the floor, the births and, as far as may be, 
the deaths, of the household take place, At the Corneys’, 

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New Year’s Fete 

the united efforts of some former generation of the family- 
had produced patchwork curtains and coverlet ; and patch- 
work was patchwork in those days, before the early Yates’ 
and Peels had found out the secret of printing the parsley- 
leaf. Scraps of costly Indian chintzes and palempours were 
intermixed with commoner black and red calico in minute 
hexagons, and the variety of patterns served for the useful 
purpose of promoting conversation as well as the more 
obvious one of displaying the work-woman’s taste. Sylvia, 
for instance, began at once to her old friend, Molly Brunton, 
who had accompanied her into this chamber to take off her 
hat and cloak, with a remark on one of the chintzes. Stoop- 
ing over the counterpane, with a face into which the flush 
would come whether or no, she said to Molly — 

“ Dear ! I never seed this one afore — this — for all t’ 
world like th’ eyes in a peacock’s tail.” 

“ Thou’s seen it many a time and oft, lass. But weren’t 
thou surprised to And Charley here? We picked him up 
at Shields, quite by surprise like ; and when Brunton and 
me said as we was cornin’ here, nought would serve him, 
but cornin’ with us, for t’ see t’ New Year in. It’s a pity as 
your mother’s ta’en this time for t’ fall ill and want yo’ back 
so early.” 

Sylvia had taken off her hat and cloak by this time, and 
began to help Molly and a younger unmarried sister in 
laying out the substantial supper. 

“ Here,” continued Mrs. Brunton ; “ stick a bit o’ holly i’ 
yon pig’s mouth, that’s the way we do things i’ Newcassel ; 
but folks is so behindhand in Monkshaven. It’s a fine thing 
to live in a large town, Sylvia ; an’ if yo’re looking out for a 
husband, I’d advise yo’ to tak’ one as lives in a town. I feel 
as if I were buried alive cornin’ back here, such an out-o’-t’- 
way place after t’ Side, wheere there’s many a hundred carts 
and carriages goes past in a day. I’ve a great mind for t’ 
tak yo’ two lassies back wi’ me, and let yo’ see a bit o’ t’ 
world ; maybe, I may yet. ’ 

Her sister Bessy looked much pleased with this plan; 

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but Sylvia was rather inclined to take offence at Molly’s 
patronising ways, and replied — 

“ I’m none so fond o’ noise and bustle ; why, yo’ll not 
be able to hear yoursels speak wi’ all them carts and car- 
riages. I’d rayther bide at home ; let alone that mother 
can’t spare me.” 

It was, perhaps, a rather ungracious way of answering 
Molly Brunton’s speech ; and so she felt it to be, although 
her invitation had been none of the most courteously 
worded. She irritated Sylvia still further by repeating her 
last words — 

“ ‘ Mother can’t spare me ’ ! why, mother ’ll have to spare 
thee sometime, when t’ time for wedding comes.” 

“ I’m none going to be wed,” said Sylvia ; “ and if I 
were, I’d niver go far fra’ mother.” 

“ Eh ! what a spoilt darling it is ! How Brunton will 
laugh when I tell him about yo’ ; Brunton’s a rare one for 
laughin’. It’s a great thing to have got such a merry man 
for a husband. Why, he has his joke for every one as 
comes into t’ shop ; and he’ll ha’ somethin’ funny to say to 
everything this evenin’.” 

Bessy saw that Sylvia was annoyed; and, with more 
delicacy than her sister, she tried to turn the conversation. 

“ That’s a pretty ribbon in thy hair, Sylvia ; I’d like to 
have one o’ t’ same pattern. Feyther likes pickled walnuts 
stuck about t’ round o’ beef, Molly.” 

“ I know what I’m about,” replied Mrs. Brunton, with a 
toss of her married head. 

Bessy resumed her inquiry. 

“ Is there any more to be had wheere that come fra’, 
Sylvia ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” replied Sylvia. “ It come fra’ Fosters’, 
and yo’ can ask.” 

“ What might it cost ? ” said Bessy, fingering an end of 
it to test its quality. 

“ I can’t tell,” said Sylvia, “ it were a present.” 

“ Niver mak’ a-do about t’ price,” said Molly ; “ I’ll gi’e 

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New Year’s Fete 

thee enough on ’t to tie up thy hair, just like Sylvia’s. Only 
thou hasn’t such wealth o’ curls as she has ; it’ll niver look 
t’ same i’ thy straight locks. And who might it be as give 
it thee, Sylvia?” asked the unscrupulous, if good-natured, 
Molly. 

“ My cousin Philip, him as is shopman at Fosters’,” said 
Sylvia innocently. But it was far too good an opportunity 
for the exercise of Molly’s kind of wit for her to pass over. 

“ Oh, oh ! our cousin Philip, is it ? and he’ll not be living 
so far away from your mother ? I’ve no need be a witch to 
put two and two together. He’s a-coming here to-night, 
isn’t he, Bessy ? ” 

“ I wish yo’ wouldn’t talk so, Molly,” said Sylvia ; “me 
and Philip is good enough friends, but we niver think on 
each other in that way ; leastways, I don’t ” 

“ (Sweet butter ! now that’s my mother’s old-fashioned 
way ; as if folks must eat sweet butter now-a-days, because 
her mother did!) That way,” continued Molly, in the 
manner that annoyed Sylvia so much, repeating her words 
as if for the purpose of laughing at them. “ ‘ That way ? ’ 
and pray what is t’ way yo’re speaking on ? I niver said 
nought about marrying, did I, that yo’ need look so red and 
shamefaced about yo’r cousin Philip? But, as Brunton 
says, if t’ cap fits yo’, put it on. I’m glad he’s cornin’ 
to-night tho’, for, as I’m done makin’ love and courtin’, it’s 
next best t’ watch other folks; an’ yo’r face, Sylvia, has 
letten me into a secret as I’d some glimpses on afore I 
was wed.” 

Sylvia secretly determined not to speak a word more to 
Philip than she could help, and wondered how she could 
ever have liked Molly at all, much less have made a com- 
panion of her. The table was now laid out, and nothing 
remained but to criticise the arrangement a little. 

Bessy was full of admiration. 

“ Theere, Molly ! ” said she. “ Yo’ niver seed more vittle 
brought together i’ Newcassel, I’ll be bound; there’ll be 
above half a hundred- weight o’ butcher’s meat, beside pies and 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

custards. I’ve eaten no dinner these two days for thinking 
on’t ; it’s been a weary burden on my mind ; but it’s off, now 
I see how well it looks. I told mother not to come near it 
till we’d spread it all out, and now I’ll go fetch her.” 

Bessy ran off into the house- place. 

“ It’s well enough in a country kind o’ way,” said Molly, 
with the faint approbation’ of condescension. “ But if I’d 
thought on’t, I’d ha’ brought ’em down a beast or two done 
i’ sponge-cake, wi’ currants for his eyes, to give t’ table an 
air.” 

The door was opened, and Bessy came in smiling and 
blushing with proud pleasure. Her mother followed her 
on tip-toe, smoothing down her apron, and with her voice 
subdued to a whisper — 

“ Ay, my lass, it is fine ! But dunnot mak’ an ado about 
it ; let ’em think it’s just our common way. If any one says 
aught about how good t’ vittle is, tak’ it calm, and say we’n 
better i’ t’ house, — it’ll mak ’em eat wi’ a better appetite, and 
think the more on us. Sylvie, I’m much beholden t’ ye for 
cornin’ so early, and helpin’ t’ lasses ; but yo’ mun come in 
t’ house-place now ; t’ folks is gatherin’, an’ yo’r cousin’s 
been asking after yo’ a’ready.” 

Molly gave her a nudge, which made Sylvia’s face go all 
aflame with angry embarrassment. She was conscious that 
the watching, which Molly had threatened her with, began 
directly ; for Molly went up to her , husband, and whispered 
something to him which set him off in a chuckling laugh ; 
and Sylvia was aware that his eyes followed her about with 
knowing looks all the evening. She would hardly speak to 
Philip, and pretended not to see his outstretched hand, but 
passed on to the chimney-corner, and tried to shelter herself 
behind the broad back of Farmer Corney, who had no notion 
of relinquishing his customary place for all the young people 
who ever came to the house — or for any old people either, 
for that matter. It was his household throne, and there he 
sat with no more idea of abdicating in favour of any comer 
than King George at St. James’s. But he was glad to see 

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New Year’s Fete 

his friends, and had paid them the unwonted compliment 
of shaving on a week-day, and putting on his Sunday coat. 
The united efforts of wife and children had failed to persuade 
him to make any farther change in his attire ; to all their 
arguments on this head he had replied — 

“ Them as doesn’t like t’ see me i’ my work-a-day wescut 
and breeches may bide away.” 

It was the longest sentence he said that day; but he 
repeated it several times over. He was glad enough to see 
all the young people ; but they were not “ of his kidney,” as 
he expressed it to himself, and he did not feel any call upon 
himself to entertain them. He left that to his bustling wife, 
all smartness and smiles, and to his daughters and son-in-law. 
His efforts at hospitality consisted in sitting still, smoking 
his pipe ; when any one came, he took it out of his mouth 
for an instant, and nodded his head in a cheerful friendly 
way, without a word of speech, and then returned to his 
smoking with the greater relish for the moment’s intermission. 
He thought to himself : — 

“ They’re a set o’ young chaps as thinks more on t’ lasses 
than on baccy ; they’ll find out their mistake in time ; give 
’em time, give ’em time.” 

And, before eight o’clock, he went as quietly as a man of 
twelve stone can upstairs to bed, having made a previous 
arrangement with his wife that she should bring him up 
about two pounds of spiced beef, and a hot tumbler of stiff 
grog. But, at the beginning of the evening, he formed a good 
screen for Sylvia, who was rather a favourite with the old 
man, for twice he spoke to her. 

“ Feyther smokes ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Sylvia. 

“ Beach me t’ baccy box, my lass.” 

And that was all the conversation that passed between her 
and her nearest neighbour, for the first quarter of an hour 
after she came into company. 

But, for all her screen, she felt a pair of eyes were fixed 
upon her with a glow of admiration deepening their honest 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

brightness. Somehow, look in what direction she would, she 
caught the glance of those eyes before she could see anything 
else. So she played with her apron-strings, and tried not 
to feel so conscious. There were another pair of eyes — not 
such beautiful, sparkling eyes — deep-set, earnest, sad, nay, 
even gloomy, watching her every movement; but of this 
she was not aware. Philip had not recovered from the 
rebuff she had given him by refusing his offered hand, and 
was standing still, in angry silence, when Mrs. Corney thrust 
a young woman just arrived upon his attention. 

“ Come, Measter Hepburn, here’s Nancy Pratt wi’out ev’n 
a soul to speak t’ her, an’ yo’ mopin’ theere. She says she 
knows yo’ by sight fra’ having dealt at Fosters’ these six 
year. See if yo’ can’t find summut t’ say t’ each other, for 
I mun go pour out tea. Dixons, an’ Walkers, an’ Elliotts, 
an’ Smiths is come,” said she, marking off the families 
on her fingers, as she looked round and called over their 
names ; “an’ there’s only Will Latham an’ his two sisters, 
and Eoger Harbottle, an’ Taylor t’ come ; an’ they’ll turn up 
afore tea’s ended.” 

So she went off to her duty at the one table, which, placed 
alongside of the dresser, was the only article of furniture left 
in the middle of the room : all the seats being arranged as 
close to the four walls as could be managed. The candles 
of those days gave but a faint light, compared to the light of 
the immense fire, which it was a point of hospitality to keep 
at the highest roaring, blazing pitch ; the young women 
occupied the seats, with the exception of two or three of the 
elder ones, who, in an eager desire to show their capability, 
insisted on helping Mrs. Corney in her duties, very much to 
her annoyance, as there were certain little contrivances for 
eking out cream, and adjusting the strength of the cups of 
tea to the worldly position of the intended drinkers, which 
she did not like every one to see. The young men — whom 
tea did not embolden, and who had as yet had no chance of 
stronger liquor — clustered in rustic shyness round the door, 
not speaking even to themselves, except now and then, when 

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New Year’s Fete 

one, apparently the wag of the party, made some whispered 
remark, which set them all off laughing ; but in a minute 
they checked themselves, and passed the back of their hands 
across their mouths to compose that unlucky feature ; and 
then some would try to fix their eyes on the rafters of the 
ceiling, in a manner which was decorous if rather abstracted 
from the business in hand. Most of these were young 
farmers, with whom Philip had nothing in common, and 
from whom, in shy reserve, he had withdrawn himself when 
he first came in. But now he wished himself among them 
sooner than set to talk to Nancy Pratt, when he had nothing 
to say. And yet he might have had a companion less to his 
mind, for she was a decent young woman of a sober age, 
less inclined to giggle than many of the younger ones. But, 
all the time that he was making commonplace remarks to 
her, he was wondering if he had offended Sylvia, and why 
she would not shake hands with him ; and this pre-occupation 
of his thoughts did not make him an agreeable companion. 
Nancy Pratt, who had been engaged for some years to a 
mate of a whaling-ship, perceived something of his state of 
mind, and took no offence at it ; on the contrary, she tried 
to give him pleasure by admmng Sylvia. 

“I’ve often heerd tell on her,” said she, “but I niver 
thought she’d be so pretty, and so staid and quiet-like too. 
T’ most part o’ girls as has looks like hers are always gape- 
gazing to catch other folk’s eyes, and see what is thought on 
’em ; but she looks just like a child, a bit flustered wi’ cornin’ 
into company, and gettin’ into as dark a corner and hidin’ 
as still as she can.” 

Just then Sylvia lifted up her long, dark lashes, and catch- 
ing the same glance which she had so often met before — 
Charley Kinraid was standing talking to Brunton on the 
opposite side of the fire-place — she started back into the 
shadow as if she had not expected it, and in so doing spilt 
her tea all over her gown. She could almost have cried, she 
felt herself so awkward, and as if everything was going 
wrong with her; she thought that every one would think 

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she had never been in company before, and did not know 
how to behave ; and, while she was thus fluttered and 
crimson, she saw through her tearful eyes Kinraid on his 
knees before her, wiping her gown with his silk pocket- 
handkerchief, and heard him speaking through all the buzz 
of commiserating voices. 

“ Yon cupboard handle is so much i’ th’ way — I hurt 
my elbow against it only this very afternoon.” 

So perhaps it was no clumsiness of hers — as they would 
all know, now, since he had so skilfully laid the blame 
somewhere else ; and after all it turned out that her accident 
had been the means of bringing him across to her side, 
which was much more pleasant than having him opposite, 
staring at her; for now he began to talk to her, and this 
was very pleasant, although she was rather embarrassed at 
their tete-a-tete, first. 

“ I did not know you again when I first saw you,” said 
he, in a tone which implied a good deal more than was 
uttered in words. 

“ I knowed yo’ at once,” she replied softly ; and then she 
blushed and played with her apron-string, and wondered 
if she ought to have confessed to the clearness of her re- 
collection. 

“ You’re grown up into — well, perhaps it’s not manners 
to say what you’re grown into— anyhow, I shan’t forget yo’ 
again.” 

More playing with her apron-string, and head hung still 
lower down, though the corners of her mouth would go up 
in a shy smile of pleasure. Philip watched it all as greedily 
as if it gave him delight. 

“ Yo’r father, he’ll be well and hearty, I hope ? ” asked 
Charley. 

“ Yes,” replied Sylvia ; and then she wished she could 
originate some remark : he would think her so stupid if she 
just kept on saying such little short bits of speeches ; and, 
if he thought her stupid, he might perhaps go away again to 
his former place. 

ISO 


New Year’s F6te 

But he was quite far enough gone in love of her beauty, 
and pretty modest ways, not to care much whether she talked 
or no, so long as she showed herself so pleasingly conscious 
of his close neighbourhood. 

“ I must come and see the old gentleman ; and your 
mother, too,” he added more slowly; for he remembered that 
his visits last year had not been quite so much welcomed by 
Bell Eobson as by her husband; perhaps it was because of 
the amount of drink which he and Daniel managed to get 
through of an evening. He resolved this year to be more 
careful to please the mother of Sylvia. 

When tea was ended, there was a great bustle and shift- 
ing of places, while Mrs. Corney and her daughters carried 
out trays full of used cups, and great platters of uneaten 
bread and butter into the back-kitchen, to be washed up 
after the guests were gone. Just because she was so con- 
scious that she did not want to move, and break up the 
little conversation between herself and Kinraid, Sylvia forced 
herself to be as active in the service going on as became a 
friend of the house ; and she was too much her mother’s 
own daughter to feel comfortable at leaving all the things 
in the disorder which to the Corney girls was second 
nature. 

“ This milk mun go back to t’ dairy, I reckon,” said she, 
loading herself with milk and cream. 

“ Niver fash thysel’ about it,” said Nelly Corney ; 
“ Christmas comes but onest a year, if it does go sour ; 
and mother said she’d have a game at forfeits first thing 
after tea, to loosen folks’s tongues, and mix up t’ lads 
and lasses; so come along.” 

But Sylvia steered her careful way to the cold chill of 
the dairy, and would not be satisfied till she had carried 
away all the unused provision into some fresher air than 
that heated by the fires and ovens, used for the long day’s 
cooking of pies and cakes and much roast meat. 

When they came back, a round of red-faced “ lads,” as 
young men up to five-and-thirty are called in Lancashire 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

and Yorkshire if they are not married before, and lasses, 
whose age was not to be defined, were playing at some 
country game, in which the women were apparently more 
interested than the men, who looked shamefaced, and afraid 
of each other’s ridicule. Mrs. Corney, however, knew how 
to remedy this, and at a sign from her a great jug of beer 
was brought in. This jug was the pride of her heart, and 
was in the shape of a fat man in white knee-breeches, and 
a three-cornered hat ; with one arm he supported the pipe 
in his broad, smiling mouth, and the other was placed 
akimbo and formed the handle. There was also a great 
china punch-bowl filled with grog made after an old ship- 
receipt current in these parts, but not too strong : because, 
if their visitors had too much to drink at that early part of 
the evening “ it would spoil t’ fun,” as Nelly Corney had 
observed. Her father, however, after the notions of hos- 
pitality prevalent at that time in higher circles, had stipulated 
that each man should have “ enough ” before he left the 
house ; “ enough ” meaning, in Monkshaven parlance, the 
liberty of getting drunk, if they thought fit to do it. 

Before long one of the lads was seized with a fit of 
admiration for Toby — the name of the old gentleman who 
contained liquor — and went up to the tray for a closer 
inspection. He was speedily followed by other amateurs 
of curious earthenware ; and by-and-by Mr. Brunton (who 
had been charged by his mother-in-law with the due supply- 
ing of liquor — by his father-in-law that every man should 
have his fill, and by his wife and her sisters that no one 
should have too much, at any rate at the beginning of the 
evening), thought fit to carry out Toby to be replenished ; 
and a faster spirit of enjoyment and mirth began to reign 
in the room. 

Kinraid was too well seasoned to care what amount of 
liquor he drank ; Philip had what was called a weak head, 
and disliked muddling himself with drink because of the 
immediate consequence of intense feelings of irritability, and 
the more distant one of a racking headache next day ; so 

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New Year’s Fete 

both these two preserved very much the same demeanour 
they had held at the beginning of the evening. 

Sylvia was by all acknowledged and treated as the belle. 
When they played at blind-man’s-buff, go where she would, 
she was always caught ; she was called out repeatedly to do 
what was required in any game, as if all had a pleasure in 
seeing her light figure and deft ways. She was sufficiently 
pleased with this to have got over her shyness with all except 
Charley. When others paid her their rustic compliments, 
she tossed her head, and made her little saucy repartees ; but, 
when he said something low and flattering, it was too honey- 
sweet to her heart to be thrown off thus. And, somehow, 
the more she yielded to this fascination, the more she 
avoided Philip. He did not speak flatteringly — he did not 
pay compliments — he watched her with discontented, longing 
eyes, and grew more inclined every moment, as he remem- 
bered his anticipation of a happy evening, to cry out in his 
heart “ vanitas vanitatum." 

And now came crying the forfeits. Molly Brunton knelt 
down, her face buried in her mother’s lap ; the latter took out 
the forfeits one by one, and as she held them up, said the 
accustomed formula — 

“ A fine thing and a very fine thing, what must he (or she) 
do who owns this thing ? ” 

One or two had been told to kneel to the prettiest, bow to 
the wittiest, and kiss those they loved best ; others had had 
to bite an inch off the poker, or carry out such plays upon 
words. And now came Sylvia’s pretty new ribbon that Philip 
had given her (he almost longed to snatch it out of Mrs. 
Corney’s hands and burn it before all their faces, so annoyed 
was he with the whole affair). 

“ A fine thing and a very fine thing — a most particular 
fine thing — choose how she came by it. What must she do 
as owns this thing ? ” 

“ She must blow out t’ candle and kiss t’ candlestick.” 

In one instant Kinraid had hold of the only candle 
within reach, all the others had been put up high on 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

inaccessible shelves and other places. Sylvia went up and 
blew out the candle, and before the sudden partial darkness 
was over he had taken the candle into his fingers, and, 
according to the traditional meaning of the words, was in 
the place of the candlestick, and as such was to be kissed. 
Every one laughed at innocent Sylvia’s face as the meaning 
of her penance came into it, every one but Philip, who 
almost choked. 

“ I’m candlestick,” said Kinraid, with less of triumph in 
his voice than he would have had with any other girl in the 
room. 

“ Yo’ mun kiss t’ candlestick,” cried the Corneys, “ or 
yo’ll niver get yo’r ribbon back.” 

“ And she sets a deal o’ store by that ribbon,” said Molly 
Brunton maliciously. 

“ I’ll none kiss t’ candlestick, nor him either,” said 
Sylvia, in a low voice of determination, turning away, full of 
confusion. 

“ Yo’ll not get yo’r ribbon, if yo’ dunnot,” cried one 
and all. 

“ I don’t care for t’ ribbon,” said she, flashing up with a 
look at her tormentors, now her back was turned to Kinraid. 
“ An’ I wunnot play any more at such-like games,” she 
added, with fresh indignation rising in her heart, as she took 
her old place in the corner of the room, a little away from 
the rest. 

Philip’s spirits rose, and he yearned to go to her and tell 
her how he approved of her conduct. Alas, Phihp ! Sylvia, 
though as modest a girl as ever lived, was no prude, and had 
been brought up in simple, straightforward country ways ; 
and with any other young man, excepting, perhaps, Philip’s 
self, she would have thought no more of making a rapid 
pretence of kissing the hand or cheek of the temporary “candle- 
stick,” than our ancestresses did in a much higher rank 
on similar occasions. Kinraid, though mortified by his public 
rejection, was more conscious of this than the inexperienced 
Philip ; he resolved not to be baulked, and watched his 

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New Year’s F6te 

opportunity. For the time he went on playing as if Sylvia’s 
conduct had not affected him in the least, and as if he was 
hardly aware of her defection from the game. As she saw 
others submitting, quite as a matter of course, to similar 
penances, she began to be angry with herself for having 
thought twice about it, and almost to dislike herself for the 
strange consciousness which had made it at the time seem 
impossible to do what she was told. Her eyes kept filling 
with tears as her isolated position in the gay party, the 
thought of what a fool she had made of herself, kept recur- 
ring to her mind ; but no one saw her, she thought, thus 
crying ; and, ashamed to be discovered when the party should 
pause in their game, she stole round behind them into the 
great chamber in which she had helped to lay out the 
supper, with the intention of bathing her eyes, and taking a 
drink of water. One instant Charley Kinraid was missing 
from the circle of which he was the life and soul ; and then 
back he came with an air of satisfaction on his face — intelli- 
gible enough to those who had seen his game, but un- 
noticed by Philip, who, amidst the perpetual noise and 
movements around him, had not perceived Sylvia’s leaving 
the room, until she came back at the end of about a quarter 
of an hour, looking lovelier than ever; her complexion 
brilliant, her eyes drooping, her hair neatly and freshly 
arranged, tied with a brown ribbon instead of that she 
was supposed to have forfeited. She looked as if she did not 
wish her return to be noticed, stealing softly behind the 
romping lads and lasses with noiseless motions, and alto- 
gether such a contrast to them, in her cool freshness and 
modest neatness, that both Kinraid and Philip found it 
difficult to keep their eyes off her. But the former had a 
secret triumph in his heart, which enabled him to go on 
with his merry-making as if it absorbed him ; while Philip 
dropped out of the crowd and came up to where she was 
standing silently by Mrs. Corney, who, arms akimbo, was 
laughing at the frolic and fun around her. Sylvia started a 
little when Philip spoke, and kept her soft eyes averted from 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

him after the first glance ; she answered him shortly, but 
with unaccustomed gentleness. He had only asked her 
when she would like him to take her home ; and she, a little 
surprised at the idea of going home, when to her the evening 
seemed only beginning, had answered — 

“ Go home ? I don’t know ! It’s New Year’s eve ! ” 

“ Ay ! but yo’r mother ’ll lie awake till yo’ come home, 
Sylvie.” 

But Mrs. Corney, having heard his question, broke in 
with all sorts of upbraidings. “ Go home ! Not see t’ New 
Year in ! Why, what should take ’em home these six hours ? 
Wasn’t there a moon as clear as day ? and did such a time 
as this come often ? And were they to break up the party 
before the New Year came in ? And was there not supper, 
with a spiced round of beef that had been in pickle pretty 
nigh sin’ Martinmas, and hams, and mince-pies, and what 
not ? And, if they thought any evil of her master’s going to 
bed, or that by that early retirement he meant to imply 
that he did not bid his friends welcome — why, he would 
not stay up beyond eight o’clock for King George upon his 
throne, as he’d tell them soon enough, if they’d only step up- 
stairs and ask him. Well ; she knowed what it was to want 
a daughter when she was ailing ; so she’d say nought more, 
but hasten supper.” 

And this idea now took possession of Mrs. Corney’s 
mind, for she would not willingly allow one of her guests to 
leave before they had done justice to her preparations ; and, 
cutting her speech short, she hastily left Sylvia and Philip 
together. 

His heart beat fast ; his feelings towards her had never 
been so strong or so distinct as since her refusal to kiss the 
“ candlestick.” He was on the point of speaking, of saying 
something explicitly tender, when the wooden trencher 
which the party were using at their play, came bowling 
between him and Sylvia, and spun out its little period right 
betwixt them. Every one was moving from chair to chair ; 
and, when the bustle was over, Sylvia was seated at some 

156 


New Year’s F&te 

distance from him, and he left standing outside the circle, as 
if he were not playing. In fact, Sylvia had unconsciously 
taken his place as actor in the game, while he remained 
spectator, and, as it turned out, an auditor of a conversation 
not intended for his ears. He was wedged against the wall, 
close to the great eight-day clock, with its round moon-like 
smiling face forming a ludicrous contrast to his long, sallow, 
grave countenance, which was pretty much at the- same level 
above the sanded floor. Before him sat Molly Brunton and 
one of her sisters, their heads close together in too deep talk 
to attend to the progress of the game. Philip’s attention was 
caught by the words — 

“ I’ll lay any wager he kissed her when he ran off into t’ 
parlour.” 

“ She’s so coy she’d niver let him,’ ’ replied Bessy 
Oorney. 

“ She couldn’t help hersel’ ; and, for all she looks so 
demure and prim now ” (and then both heads were turned 
in the direction of Sylvia), “ I’m as sure as I’m bom that 
Charley is not t’ chap to lose his forfeit ; and yet yo’ see he 
says nought more about it, and she’s left off being ’feared 
of him.” 

There was something in Sylvia’s look, ay, and in Charley 
Kinraid’s too, that shot conviction into Philip’s mind. He 
watched them incessantly during the interval before supper ; 
they were intimate, and yet shy with each other, in a manner 
that enraged, while it bewildered, Philip. What was Charley 
saying to her in that whispered voice, as they passed each 
other? Why did they linger near each other? Why did 
Sylvia look so dreamily happy, so startled at every call of 
the game, as if recalled from some pleasant idea ? Why did 
Kinraid’s eyes always seek her while hers were averted, or 
downcast, and her cheeks all aflame. Philip’s dark brow 
grew darker as he gazed. He, too, started when Mrs. 
Corney, close at his elbow, bade him go in to supper along 
with some of the elder ones, who were not playing ; for the 
parlour was not large enough to hold all at once, even with 

157 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

the squeezing and cramming, and sitting together on chairs, 
which was not at all out of etiquette at Monkshaven. Philip 
was too reserved to express his disappointment and annoy- 
ance at being thus arrested in his painful watch over Sylvia ; 
but he had no appetite for the good things set before him, 
and found it hard work to smile a sickly smile, when called 
upon by Josiah Pratt for applause at some country joke. 
When supper was ended, there was some little discussion 
between Mrs. Corney and her son-in-law as to whether the 
different individuals of the company should be called upon 
for songs or stories, as was the wont at such convivial meet- 
ings. Brunton had been helping his mother-in-law in urging 
people to eat, heaping their plates over their shoulders with 
unexpected good things, filling the glasses at the upper end 
of the table, and the mugs which supplied the deficiency of 
glasses at the lower. And now, every one being satisfied, 
not to say stuffed to repletion, the two who had been attend- 
ing to their wants stood still, hot and exhausted. 

“ They’re a’ most stawed,” said Mrs. Corney, with a 
pleased smile. “ It’ll be manners t’ ask some one as knows 
how to sing.” 

“ It may be manners for full men, but not for fasting,” 
replied Brunton. “ Polk’s in t’ next room will be wanting 
their victual, and singing is allays out o’ tune to empty 
beUies.” 

“But there’s them here as ’ll take it ill if they’re not 
asked. I heerd Josiah Pratt a-clearing his throat not a 
minute ago, an’ he thinks as much on his sin gin’ as a cock 
does on his crowin’.” 

“ If one sings, I’m afeared all on ’em will like to hear 
their own pipes.” 

But their dilemma was solved by Bessy Corney, who 
opened the door to see if the hungry ones outside might not 
come in for their share of the entertainment ; and in they 
rushed, bright and riotous, scarcely giving the first party 
time to rise from their seats ere they took their places. One 
or two young men, released from all their previous shyness, 

158 


New Year’s F6te 

helped Mrs. Comey and her daughters to carry off such 
dishes as were actually empty. There was no time for 
changing or washing of plates; but then, as Mrs. Corney 
laughingly observed — 

“ We’re a’ on us friends, and some on us mayhap sweet- 
hearts ; so no need to be particular about plates. Them as 
gets clean ones is lucky ; and them as doesn’t, and cannot 
put up wi’ plates that has been used, mun go without.” 

It seemed to be Philip’s luck this night to be pent up in 
places; for again the space between the benches and the 
wall was filled up by the in-rush before he had time to make 
his way out ; and all he could do was to sit quiet where he 
was. But, between the busy heads and over-reaching arms, 
he could see Charley and Sylvia, sitting close together, talk- 
ing and listening more than eating. She was in a new 
strange state of happiness not to be reasoned about, or 
accounted for, but in a state of more exquisite feeling than 
she had ever experienced before ; when, suddenly lifting her 
eyes, she caught Philip’s face of extreme displeasure. 

“ Oh,” said she, “ I must go. There’s Philip looking at 
me so.” 

“ Philip ! ” said Kinraid, with a sudden frown upon his face. 

“ My cousin,” she repHed, instinctively comprehending 
what had flashed into his mind, and anxious to disclaim the 
suspicion of having a lover. “ Mother told him to see me 
home, and he’s noane one for staying up late.” 

“ But you needn’t go. I’ll see yo’ home.” 

“ Mother’s but ailing,” said Sylvia, a little conscience- 
smitten at having so entirely forgotten everything in the 
delight of the present ; “ and I said I wouldn’t be late.” 

“ And do you allays keep to your word ? ” asked he, with 
a tender meaning in his tone. 

“ Allays ; leastways I think so,” replied she, blushing. 

“ Then if I ask you not to forget me, and you give me 
your word, I may be sure you’ll keep it.” 

“ It wasn’t I as f.orgot you,” said Sylvia, so softly as not 
to be heard by him. 


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Sylvia’s Lovers 

He tried to make her repeat what she had said, but she 
would not ; and he could only conjecture that it was some- 
thing more tell-tale than she liked to say again, and that 
alone was very charming to him. 

“ I shall walk home with you,” said he, as Sylvia at last 
rose to depart, warned by a further glimpse of Philip’s angry 
face. 

“ No ! ” said she hastily, “ I can’t do with yo’ ” ; for 
somehow she felt the need of pacifying Philip, and knew in 
her heart that a third person joining their tete-a-tUe walk 
would only increase his displeasure. 

“ Why not ? ” said Charley sharply. 

“ Oh ! I don’t know, only please don’t ! ” 

By this time her cloak and hood were on, and she was 
slowly making her way down her side of the room; followed 
by Charley, and often interrupted by indignant remonstrances 
against her departure and the early breaking-up of the 
party. Philip stood, hat in hand, in the doorway between 
the kitchen and parlour, watching her so intently that he 
forgot to be civil, and drew many a jest and gibe upon him 
for his absorption in his pretty cousin. 

When Sylvia reached him, he said — 

“ Yo’re ready at last, are yo’ ? ” 

“ Yes,” she replied, in her httle beseeching tone. “ Yo’ve 
not been wanting to go long, ban yo’ ? I ha’ but just eaten 
my supper.” 

“ Yo’ve been so full of talk, that’s been the reason your 
supper lasted so long. That fellow’s none going wi’ us ? ” 
said he sharply, as he saw Kinraid rummaging for his cap in 
a heap of men’s clothes, thrown into the back -kitchen. 

“ No,” said Sylvia, in affright at Phihp’s fierce look and 
passionate tone. “ I telled him not.” 

But at that moment the heavy outer door was opened 
by Daniel Eobson himself — bright, broad, and rosy, a jolly 
impersonation of Winter. His large drover’s coat was 
covered with snow-flakes, and through the black frame of 
the doorway might be seen a white waste world of sweeping 

160 


New Year’s Fete 

fell and field, with the dark air filled with the pure down- 
fall. Eobson stamped his snow-laden feet and shook him- 
self well, still standing on the mat, and letting a cold frosty 
current of fresh air into the great warm kitchen. He 
laughed at them all before he spoke. 

“ It’s a coud New Year as I’m lettin’ in, though it’s noane 
t’ New Year yet. Yo’ll a’ be snowed up, as sure as my 
name’s Dannel, if yo’ stop for twel’ o’clock. Yo’d better 
mak’ haste and go whoam. Why, Charley, my lad! how 
beest ta? who’d ha’ thought o’ seeing thee i’ these parts 
again 1 Nay, missus, nay ; t’ New Year mun find its way inf 
f house by itsel’ for me ; for a ha’ promised my oud woman 
to bring Sylvie whoam as quick as maybe ; she’s lyin’ awake 
and frettin’ about f snow and what not. Thank you kindly, 
missus, but a’ll tak’ nought to eat ; just a drop o’ somethin’ 
hot to keep out f coud, and wish yo’ a’ the compliments o’ the 
season. Philip, my man, yo’ll not be sorry to be spared f 
walk round by Haytersbank such a neet. My missus were 
i’ such a way about Sylvie that a thought a’d just step off 
mysel’, and have a peep at yo’ a’, and bring her some wraps. 
Yo’r sheep will be a’ folded, a reckon, Measter Pratt, for 
there’ll niver be a nibble o’ grass to be seen this two month, 
accordin’ to my readin’ ; and a’ve been at sea long enough, 
and on land long enough, f know signs and wonders. It’s 
good stuff that, any way, and worth cornin’ for,” after he 
had gulped down a tumblerful of half-and-half grog. “ Kin- 
raid, if ta doesn’t come and see me afore thou’rt many days 
ouder, thee and me’ll have words. Come, Sylvie, what art 
ta about, keepin’ me here ? Here’s Mistress Corney mixin’ 
me another jorum. Well, this time a’ll give ‘ T’ married 
happy, and f single wed.’ ” 

Sylvia was all this while standing by her father quite 
ready for departure, and not a little relieved by his appear- 
ance as her convoy home. 

“ I’m ready to see Haytersbank to-night, master ! ” said 
Kinraid with easy freedom — a freedom which Philip envied, 
but could not have imitated, although he was deeply 

i6i M 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

disappointed at the loss of his walk with Sylvia, when he 
had intended to exercise the power his aunt had delegated 
to him of remonstrance, if her behaviour had been light or 
thoughtless, and of warning, if he saw cause to disapprove of 
any of her associates. 

After the Eobsons had left, a blank fell upon both Charley 
and Philip. In a few minutes, however, the former, accus- 
tomed to prompt decision, resolved that she and no other 
should be his wife. Accustomed to popularity among women, 
and well versed in the incipient signs of their liking for him, 
he anticipated no difficulty in winning her. Satisfied with 
the past, and pleasantly hopeful about the future, he found 
it easy to turn his attention to the next prettiest girl in the 
room, and to make the whole gathering bright with his ready 
good temper and buoyant spirit. 

Mrs. Corney had felt it her duty to press Philip to stay, 
now that, as she said, he had no one but himself to see home 
and the New Year so near coming in. To any one else in the 
room she would have added the clinching argument, “ A shall 
take it very unkind, if yo’ go now ” ; but somehow she could 
not say this, for in truth Philip’s look showed that he would 
be but a wet blanket on the merriment of the party. So, 
with as much civility as could be mustered up between 
them, he took leave. Shutting the door behind him, he went 
out into -the dreary night, and began his lonesome walk back 
to Monkshaven. The cold sleet almost bhnded him as the 
sea- wind drove it straight in his face ; it cut against him as 
it was blown with drifting force. The roar of the wintry sea 
came borne on the breeze; there was more light from the 
whitened ground than from the dark laden sky above. The 
field-paths would have been a matter of perplexity, had it 
not been for the well-known gaps in the dyke-side, which 
showed the whitened land beyond, between the two dark 
stone walls. Yet he went clear and straight along his way, 
having unconsciously left all guidance to the animal instinct 
which co-exists with the human soul, and sometimes takes 
strange charge of the human body, when all the nobler 

162 


New Year’s Fete 

powers of the individual are absorbed in acute suffering. At 
length he was in the lane, toiling up the hill, from which, by 
day, Monkshaven might be seen. Now all the features of 
the landscape before him were lost in the darkness of night, 
against which the white flakes came closer and nearer, 
thicker and faster. On a sudden, the bells of Monkshaven 
Church rang out a welcome to the New Year, 1796. From 
the direction of the wind, it seemed as if the sound was flung 
with strength and power right into Philip’s face. He walked 
down the hill to its merry sound — its merry sound, his heavy 
heart. As he entered the long High Street of Monkshaven, 
he could see the watching lights put out in parlour, chamber, 
or kitchen. The New Year had come, and expectation was 
ended. Eeality had begun. 

He turned to the right, into the court where he lodged 
with Alice Eose. There was a light still burning there, and 
cheerful voices were heard. He opened the door ; Alice, her 
daughter, and Coulson stood as if awaiting him. Hester’s 
wet cloak hung on a chair before the fire ; she had her hood 
on, for she and Coulson had been to the watch-night. 

The solemn excitement of the services had left its traces 
upon her countenance and in her mind. There was a 
spiritual light in her usually shadowed eyes, and a slight 
flush on her pale cheek. Merely personal and self-conscious 
feelings were merged in a loving good-will to all her fellow- 
creatures. Under the influence of this large charity, she 
forgot her habitual reserve, and came forward as Philip 
entered to meet him with her New Year’s wishes — wishes 
that she had previously interchanged with the other two. 

“ A happy New Year to you, Philip, and may God have 
you in His keeping all the days thereof ! ” 

He took her hand, and shook it warmly in reply. The 
flush on her cheek deepened, as she withdrew it. Alice Eose 
said something curtly about the lateness of the hour and her 
being much tired; and then she and her daughter went 
upstairs to the front chamber, and Philip and Coulson to 
that which they shared at the back of the house. 


Sylvia’s Lovers 


CHAPTER XIII 

PEEPLEXITIES 

CouLSON and Philip were friendly, but not intimate. They 
never had had a dispute, they never were confidential with 
each other ; in truth, they were both reserved and silent 
men, and, probably, respected each other the more for being 
so self-contained. There was a private feeling in Coulson’s 
heart which would have made a less amiable fellow dislike 
Philip. But of this the latter was unconscious ; they were 
not apt to exchange many words in the room which they 
occupied jointly. 

Coulson asked Philip if he had enjoyed himself at the 
Corneys’, and Philip replied — 

“Not much; such parties are noane to my liking.” 

“ And yet thou broke off from t’ watch-night to go there.” 

No answer; so Coulson went on, with a sense ofi the 
duty laid upon him, to improve the occasion — the first that 
had presented itself since the good old Methodist minister 
had given his congregation the solemn warning to watch 
over the opportunities of various kinds which the coming 
year would present. 

“ Jonas Barclay told us as the pleasures o’ this world 
were like apples o’ Sodom : pleasant to look at, but ashes to 
taste.” 

Coulson wisely left Philip to make the application for 
himself. If he did he made no sign, but threw himself on 
his bed with a heavy sigh. 

“ Are yo’ not going to undress ? ” said Coulson, as he 
covered him up in bed. 

There had been a long pause of silence. Philip did not 
answer him, and he thought he had fallen asleep. But he 
was roused from his first slumber by Hepburn’s soft move- 
ments about the room. Philip had thought better of it, and, 

164 


Perplexities 

with some penitence in his heart for his gruffness to the 
unoffending Coulson, was trying not to make any noise 
while he undressed. 

But he could not sleep. He kept seeing the Gorneys' 
kitchen, and the scenes that had taken place in it, passing 
like a pageant before his closed eyes. Then he opened them 
in angry weariness at the recurring vision, and tried to 
make out the outlines of the room and the furniture in the 
darkness. The white ceiling sloped into the whitewashed 
walls ; and against them he could see the four rush-bottomed 
chairs, the looking-glass hung on one side, the old carved 
oak-chest (his own property, with the initials of forgotten 
ancestors cut upon it), which held his clothes ; the boxes 
that belonged to Coulson, sleeping soundly in the bed in 
the opposite corner of the room ; the casement-window in 
the roof, through which the snowy ground on the steep 
hill-side could be plainly seen ; and, when he got so far as 
this in the catalogue of the room, he fell into a troubled 
feverish sleep, which lasted two or three hours ; and then 
he awoke with a start, and a consciousness of uneasiness, 
though what about he could not remember at first. 

When he recollected all that had happened the night 
before, it impressed him much more favourably than it had 
done at the time. If not joy, hope had come in the morn- 
ing ; and, at any rate, he could be up and be doing, for the 
late wintry light was stealing down the hill-side, and he 
knew that, although Coulson lay motionless in his sleep, it 
was past their usual time of rising. Still, as it was New 
Year’s Bay, a time of some licence, Philip had mercy on his 
fellow- shopman, and did not waken him till just as he was 
leaving the room. 

Carrying his shoes in his hand, he went softly down- 
stairs ; for he could see from the top of the flight that neither 
Alice nor her daughter was down yet, as the kitchen shutters 
were not unclosed. It was Mrs. Bose’s habit to rise early 
and have all bright and clean, against her lodgers came 
down ; but then, in general, she went to rest before nine 

165 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

o’clock, whereas the last night she had not gone till past 
twelve. Philip went about undoing the shutters, and trying 
to break up the raking coal, with as little noise as might be, 
fbr he had compassion on the tired sleepers. The kettle had 
not been filled, probably because Mrs. Bose had been unable 
to face the storm of the night before, in taking it to the 
pump just at the entrance of the court. When Philip came 
back from filling it, he found Alice and Hester both in the 
kitchen, and trying to make up for lost time by hastening 
over their work. Hester looked busy and notable with her 
gown pinned up behind her, and her hair all tucked away 
under a clean linen cap; but Alice was angry with herself 
for her late sleeping, and that and other causes made her 
speak crossly to Philip, as he came in with his snowy feet 
and well-filled kettle. 

“ Look the’ there ! droppin’ and drippin’ along t’ flags as 
was cleaned last night, and meddlin’ wi’ woman’s work as a 
man has no business wi’.” 

Philip was surprised and annoyed. He had found relief 
from his own thoughts in doing what he believed would help 
others. He gave up the kettle to her snatching hands, and 
sate down behind the door in momentary ill-temper. But 
the kettle was better filled, and consequently heavier than 
the old woman expected ; and she could not manage to lift 
it to the crook from which it generally hung suspended. She 
looked round for Hester ; but she was gone into the back- 
kitchen. In a minute Philip was at her side, and had heaved 
it to its place for her. She looked in his face for a moment 
wistfully, but hardly condescended to thank him ; at least, the 
sound of the words did not pass the lips that formed them. 
Eebuffed by her manner, he went back to his old seat, and 
mechanically watched the preparations for breakfast ; but 
his thoughts went back to the night before, and the com- 
parative ease of his heart was gone. The first stir of a new 
day had made him feel as if he had had no sufficient cause 
for his annoyance and despondency the previous evening ; 
but now, condemned to sit quiet, he reviewed looks and 

i66 


Perplexities 

words, and saw just reason for his anxiety. After some con- 
sideration he resolved to go that very night to Haytersbank, 
and have some talk with either Sylvia or her mother ; what 
the exact nature of this purposed conversation should be, he 
did not determine : much would depend on Sylvia’s manner 
and mood, and on her mother’s state of health ; but, at any 
rate, something would be learnt. 

During breakfast something was learnt nearer home; 
though not all that a man less unconscious and more vain 
than Philip might have discovered. He only found out that 
Mrs. Eose was displeased with him for not having gone to 
the watch-night with Hester, according to the plan made 
some weeks before. But he soothed his conscience by re- 
membering that he had made no promise ; he had merely 
spoken of his wish to be present at the service, about which 
Hester was speaking ; and, although at the time, and for a 
good while afterwards, he had fully intended going,- yet, as 
there had been William Coulson to accompany her, his 
absence could not have been seriously noticed. Still, he was 
made uncomfortable by Mrs. Eose’s change of manner ; once 
or twice he said to himself that she little knew how miserable 
he had been during his “ gay evening,” as she would persist 
in calling it, or she would not talk at him with such per- 
severing bitterness this morning. Before he left for the shop, 
he spoke of his intention of going to see how his aunt was, 
and of paying her a New Year’s Day visit. 

Hepburn and Coulson took it in turns, week and week 
about, to go first home to dinner ; the one who went first sate 
down with Mrs. Eose and her daughter, instead of having 
his portion put in the oven to keep warm for him. To-day 
it was Hepburn’s turn to be last. All morning the shop was 
full with customers, come rather to offer good wishes than to 
buy, and with an unspoken remembrance of the cake and 
wine which the two hospitable brothers Foster made a point 
of offering to all comers on New Year’s Day. It was busy 
work for all — for Hester on her side, where caps, ribbons, 
and women’s gear were exclusively sold — for the shopmen 

167 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

and boys in the grocery and drapery department. Philip 
was trying to do his business, with his mind far away ; and 
the consequence was that his manner was not such as to 
recommend him to the customers, some of whom recollected 
it as very different — courteous and attentive, if grave and 
sedate. One buxom farmer’s wife noticed the change to 
him. She had a little girl with her, of about five years old, 
that she had lifted up on the counter, and who was watching 
Philip with anxious eyes, occasionally whispering in her 
mother’s ear, and then hiding her face against her cloak. 

“ She’s thought a deal o’ coming to see yo’, and a dunnot 
think as yo’ mind her at all. My pretty, he’s clean forgotten 
as how he said last New Year’s Day, he’d gi’ thee a barley- 
sugar stick, if thou’d hem him a handkerchief by this.” 

The child’s face was buried in the comfortable breadth of 
duffle at these words, while the httle outstretched hand held 
a small square of coarse linen. 

“ Ay, she’s noane forgotten it, and has done her five 
stitches a day, bless her ; and a dunnot believe as yo’ know 
her again. She’s Phoebe Moorsom, and a’m Hannah, and 
a’ve dealt at the shop reg’lar this fifteen year.” 

“ I’m very sorry,” said Philip. “ I was up late last night, 
and I’m a hit dazed to-day. Well ! this is nice work, Phoebe, 
and I’m sure I’m very much beholden to yo’. And here’s 
five sticks o’ barley-sugar, one for every stitch ; and thank 
you kindly, Mrs. Moorsom, too.” 

Philip took the handkerchief, and hoped he had made 
honourable amends for his want of recognition. But the 
wee lassie refused to be lifted down, and whispered some- 
thing afresh into her mother’s ear, who smiled and bade her 
be quiet. Philip saw, however, that there was some wish 
ungratified on the part of the little maiden which he was 
expected to inquire into, and, accordingly, he did his duty. 

“ She’s a little fool ; she says yo’ promised to gi’e her a 
kiss, and t’ make her yo’r wife.” 

The child burrowed her face closer into her mother’s 
neck, and refused to allow the kiss which Philip willingly 

1 68 


Perplexities 

offered. All he could do was to touch the back of the little 
white fat neck with his lips. The mother carried her off, 
only half-satisfied ; and Philip felt that he must try and collect 
his scattered wits, and be more alive to the occasion. 

Towards the dinner-hour the crowd slackened; Hester 
began to replenish decanters and bottles, and to bring out a 
fresh cake, before she went home to dinner ; and Coulson 
and Philip looked over the joint present they always made to 
her on this day. It was a silk handkerchief of the prettiest 
colours they could pick out of the shop, intended for her to 
wear round her neck. Each tried to persuade the other to 
give it to her, for each was shy of the act of presentation. 
Coulson was, however, the most resolute; and, when she 
returned from the parlour, the little parcel was in Philip’s 
hands. 

“ Here, Hester,” said he, going round the counter to her, 
just as she was leaving the shop. “It’s from Coulson and 
me ; a handkerchief for yo’ to wear ; and we wish ' yo’ a 
happy New Year, and plenty on ’em ; and there’s many a 
one wishes the same.” 

He took her hand as he said this. She went a little 
paler, and her eyes brightened as though they would fill with 
tears as they met his ; she could not have helped it, do what 
she would. But she only said, “ Thank yo’ kindly,” and 
going up to Coulson she repeated the words and action to 
him ; and then they went off together to dinner. 

There was a lull of business for the next hour. John 
and Jeremiah were dining like the rest of the world. Even 
the elder errand-boy had vanished. Philip re-arranged dis- 
orderly goods, and then sate down on the counter by the 
window ; it was the habitual place for the one who stayed 
behind ; for, excepting on market-day, there was little or no 
custom during the noon -hour. Formerly, he used to move 
the drapery with which the window was ornamented, and 
watch the passers-by with careless eye. But now, though 
he seemed to gaze abroad, he saw nothing but vacancy. All 
the morning since he got up he had been trying to fight 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

through his duties — leaning against a hope — a hope that first 
had bowed, and then had broke, as soon as he really tried its 
weight. There was not a sign of Sylvia’s liking for him to 
be gathered from the most careful recollection of the past 
evening. It was of no use thinking that there was. It was 
better to give it up altogether and at once. But what if he 
could not ? What if the thought of her was bound up with 
his life, and, that once torn out by his own free will, the very 
roots of his heart must come also ? 

No ; he was resolved he would go on ; as long as there 
was life there was hope; as long as Sylvia remained un- 
pledged to any one else, there was a chance for him. He 
would remodel his behaviour to her. He could not be merry 
and light-hearted like other young men ; his nature was not 
cast in that mould ; and the early sorrows that had left him 
a lonely orphan might have matured, but had not enlivened, 
his character. He thought with some bitterness on the 
power of easy talking about trifles which some of those he 
had met with at the Corneys’ had exhibited. But then he 
felt stirring within him a force of enduring love which 
he believed to be unusual, and which seemed as if it must 
compel all things to his wish in the end. A year or so ago, 
he had thought much of his own cleverness and his painfully 
acquired learning, and he had imagined that these were the 
qualities which were to gain Sylvia. But now — whether he 
had tried them and had failed to win even her admiration, or 
whether some true instinct had told him that a woman’s love 
may be gained in many ways sooner than by mere learning — 
he was only angry with himself for his past folly in making 
himself her school-, nay, her task-master. To-night, though, 
he would start off on a new tack. He would not even up- 
braid her for her conduct the night before ; he had shown 
her his displeasure at the time; but she should see how 
tender and forgiving he could be. He would lure her to 
him rather than find fault with her. There had perhaps 
been too much of that already. 

When Coulson came back, Philip went to his solitary 
170 


Perplexities 

dinner. In general he was quite alone while eating it ; but 
to-day Alice Eose chose to bear him company. She watched 
him with a cold severe eye for some time, until he had 
appeased his languid appetite. Then she began with the 
rebuke she had in store for him : a rebuke, the motives for 
which were not entirely revealed even to herself. 

“ Thou’re none so keen after thy food as common,” she 
began. “ Plain victuals goes ill down after feastin’.” 

Philip felt the colour mount to his face ; he was not in 
the mood for patiently standing the brunt of the attack 
which he saw was coming, and yet he had a reverent feeling 
for woman and for age. He wished she would leave him 
alone ; but he only said — “ I had nought but a slice o’ cold 
beef for supper, if you’ll call that feasting.” 

“ Neither do godly ways savour delicately after the 
pleasures of the world,” continued she, unheeding his 
speech. “ Thou wert wont to seek the house of the Lord, 
and I thought well on thee; but of late thou’st changed, 
and fallen away, and I mun speak what is in my heart 
towards thee.” 

“ Mother,” said Philip impatiently (both he and Coulson 
called Alice “ mother ” at times), “ I don’t think I am fallen 

away, and any way I cannot stay now to be it’s New 

Year’s Hay, and t’ shop is throng.” 

But Alice held up her hand. Her speech was ready ; she 
must deliver it. 

“ Shop here, shop there ! The flesh and the devil are 
gettin’ hold on yo’, and yo’ need more nor iver to seek t’ 
ways o’ grace. New Year’s Day comes and says, ‘ Watch 
and pray,’ and yo’ say, ‘ Nay, I’ll seek feasts and market- 
places, and let times and seasons come and go without 
heedin’ into whose presence they’re hastening me.’ Time 
was, Philip, when thou’d niver ha’ letten a merry-making 
keep thee fra’ t’ watch-night, and t’ company o’ the 
godly.” 

“ I tell yo’ it was no merry-making to me,” said Philip, 
with sharpness, as he left the house. 

171 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Alice, sat down on the nearest seat, and leant her head 
on her wrinkled hand. 

“ He’s tangled and snared,” said she ; “ my heart has 
yearned after him, and I esteemed him as one o’ the elect. 
And more nor me yearns after him. 0 Lord, I have but 
one child ! O Lord, spare her ! But, o’er and above a’, I 
would like to pray for his soul, that Satan might not have 
it, for he came to me but a little lad.” 

At that moment Philip, smitten by his conscience for his 
hard manner of speech, came back ; but Alice did not hear 
or see him till he was close by her, and then he had to touch 
her to recall her attention. 

“ Mother,” said he, “ I was wrong. I’m fretted by many 
things. I shouldn’t ha’ spoken so. It was ill-done of me.” 

“ Oh, my lad ! ” said she, looking up and putting her 
thin arm on his shoulder as he stopped, “ Satan is desiring 
after yo’ that he may sift yo’ as wheat. Bide at whoam, bide 
at whoam, and go not after them as care nought for holy 
things. Why need yo’ go to Haytersbank this night ? ” 

Philip reddened. He could not and would not give it up ; 
and yet it was difficult to resist the pleading of the usually 
stern old woman. 

“ Nay,” said he, withdrawing himself ever so little from 
her hold ; “ my aunt is but ailing ; they’re my own flesh and 
blood, and as good folks as needs be, though they mayn’t be 
o’ our — o’ your way o’ thinking in a’ things.” 

“ ‘ Our ways — your ways o’ thinking,’ says he, as if they 
were no longer his’n. ‘ And as good folks as need be,’ ” 
repeated she, with returning severity. “ Them’s Satan’s 
words, tho’ yo’ spoke ’em, Philip. I can do nought again 
Satan, but I can speak to them as can ; an’ we’ll see which 
pulls hardest; for it’ll be better for thee to be riven and 
rent i’ twain than to go body and soul to hell.” 

“ But don’t think, mother,” said Philip — his last words of 
conciliation, for the clock had given warning for two — “ as 
I’m boun’ for hell, just because I go t’ see my own folks, all 
I ha’ left o’ kin.” And once more, after laying his hand 

172 


Perplexities 

with as much of a caress as was in his nature on hers, he 
left the house. 

Probably Alice would have considered the first words that 
greeted Philip on his entrance into the shop as an answer to 
her prayer, for they were such as put a stop to his plan of 
going to see Sylvia that evening ; and, if Alice had formed 
her inchoate thoughts into words, Sylvia would have appeared 
as the nearest earthly representative of the spirit of temptation 
whom she dreaded for Philip. 

As he took his place behind the counter, Ooulson said to 
him in a low voice — 

“ Jeremiah Foster has been round to bid us to sup wi’ 
him to-night. He says that he and John have a little matter 
o’ business to talk over with us.” 

A glance from his eyes to Philip told the latter that 
Coulson believed the business spoken of had something to 
do with the partnership, respecting which there had been a 
silent intelligence for some time between the shopmen. 

“ And what did thou say ? ” asked Philip, doggedly un- 
willing, even yet, to give up his purposed visit. 

“ Say ! why, what could a say, but that we’d come ? 
There was summat up, for sure ; and summat as he thought 
we should be glad on. I could tell it fra’ t’ look on his 
face.” 

“ I don’t think as I can go,” said Phihp, feeling just then 
as if the long-hoped-for partnership was as nothing compared 
to his plan. It was always distasteful to him to have to give 
up a project, or to disarrange an intended order of things — 
such was his nature ; but to-day it was absolute pain to 
yield his own purpose. 

“ Why, man alive ! ” said Coulson, in amaze at his 
reluctance. 

“ I didn’t say I mightn’t go,” said Philip, weighing con- 
sequences, until called off to attend to customers. 

In the course of the afternoon, however, he felt himself 
more easy in deferring his visit to Haytersbank till the next 
evening. Charley Kinraid entered the shop, accompanied by 

173 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Molly Brunton and her sisters ; and, though they all went 
towards Hester’s side of the shop, and Philip and Coulson 
had many people to attend to, yet Hepburn’s sharpened ears 
caught much of what the young women were saying. From 
that he gathered that Kinraid had promised them New 
Year’s gifts, for the purchase of which they were come ; and, 
after a little more listening, he learnt that Kinraid was return- 
ing to Shields the next day, having only come over to spend 
a holiday with his relations, and being tied with ship’s work 
at the other end. They all talked together lightly and 
merrily, as if his going or staying was almost a matter of 
indifference to himself and his cousins. The principal thought 
of the young women was to secure the articles they most 
fancied ; Charley Kinraid was (so Philip thought) especially 
anxious that the youngest and prettiest should be pleased. 
Hepburn watched him perpetually with a kind of envy of his 
bright, courteous manner, the natural gallantry of the sailor. 
If it were but clear that Sylvia took as little thought of him 
as he did of her, to all appearance, Philip could even have 
given him praise for manly good looks, and a certain kind of 
geniality of disposition which made him ready to smile 
pleasantly at all strangers, from babies upwards. 

As the party turned to leave the shop, they saw Philip, 
the guest of the night before ; and they came over to shake 
hands with him across the counter; Kinraid’s hand was 
proffered among the number. Last night, Philip could not 
have believed it possible that such a demonstration of fellow- 
ship should have passed between them ; and perhaps there 
was a slight hesitation of manner on his part, for some idea 
or remembrance crossed Kinraid’s mind which brought a 
keen searching glance into the eyes which for a moment 
were fastened on Philip’s face. In spite of himself, and 
during the very action of hand-shaking, Philip felt a cloud 
come over his face, not altering or moving his features, but 
taking light and peace out of his countenance. 

Molly Brunton began to say something, and he gladly 
turned to look at her. She was asking him why he went 

174 


Partnership 

away so early, for they had kept it up for four hours after he 
left ; and, last of all, she added (turning to Kinraid), her cousin 
Charley had danced a hornpipe among the platters on the 
ground. 

Philip hardly knew what he said in reply, the mention of 
that jpas seul lifted such a weight off his heart. He could 
smile now, after his grave fashion, and would have shaken 
hands again with Kinraid had it been required ; for it seemed 
to him that no one, caring ever so little in the way that he 
did for Sylvia, could have home four mortal hours of a 
company where she had been, and was not; least of all 
could have danced a hornpipe, either from gaiety of heart, or 
even out of complaisance. He felt as if the yearning after 
the absent one would have been a weight to his legs, as 
well as to his spirit ; and he imagined that all men were like 
himself. 


CHAPTEE XIV 

PARTNERSHIP 

As darkness closed in, and the New Year’s throng became 
scarce, Philip’s hesitation about accompanying Coulson faded 
away. He was more comfortable respecting Sylvia, and his 
going to see her might be deferred ; and, after all, he felt 
that the wishes of his masters ought to be attended to, and 
the honour of an invitation to the private house of Jeremiah 
not to be slighted for anything short of a positive engagement. 
Besides, the ambitious man of business existed strongly in 
Philip. It would never do to slight advances towards the 
second great earthly object in his hfe ; one also on which the 
first depended. 

So, when the shop was closed, the two set out down 
Bridge Street, to cross the river to the house of Jeremiah 

175 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Foster. They stood a moment on the bridge, to breathe the 
keen fresh sea air after their busy day. The waters came 
down, swollen full and dark, with rapid rushing speed from 
the snow-fed springs high up on the moorland above. The 
close-packed houses in the Old Town seemed a cluster of 
white roofs, irregularly piled against the more unbroken 
white of the hill-side. Lights twinkled here and there in the 
town, and were slung from stern and bow of the ships in the 
harbour. The air was very still, settling in for a frost ; so 
still that all distant sounds seemed near : the rumble of a 
returning cart in the High Street, the voices on board ship, 
the closing of shutters and barring of doors in the New Town 
to which they were bound. But the sharp air was filled, as 
it were, with saline particles in a freezing state ; little pungent 
crystals of sea-salt, burning lips and cheeks with their cold 
keenness. It would not do to linger here in the very centre 
of the valley, up which passed the current of atmosphere 
coming straight with the rushing tide from the icy northern 
seas. Besides, there was the unusual honour of a supper 
with Jeremiah Foster awaiting them. He had asked each of 
them separately to a meal before now ; but they had never 
gone together, and they felt that there was something serious 
in the conjuncture. 

They began to climb the steep heights leading to the 
freshly-built rows of the new town of Monkshaven, feeling 
as if they were rising into aristocratic regions where no shop 
profaned the streets. Jeremiah Foster’s house was one of 
six, undistinguished in size, or shape, or colour ; but noticed 
in the daytime by all passers-by for its spotless cleanliness 
of lintel and doorstep, window and window-frame. The 
very bricks seemed as though they came in for the daily 
scrubbing which brightened handle, knocker, all down to the 
very scraper. 

The two young men felt as shy of the interview with their 
master, under such unusual relations of guest and host, as a 
girl does of her first party. Each rather drew back from the 
decided step of knocking at the door ; but, with a rebufi&ng 

176 


Partnership 

shake at his own folly, Philip was the one to give a loud 
single rap. As if they had been waited for, the door flew 
open, and a middle-aged servant stood behind, as spotless 
and neat as the house itself, and smiled a welcome to the 
familiar faces. 

“ Let me dust yo’ a bit, William,” said she, suiting the 
action to the word. “ Yo’ve been leanin’ again some white- 
wash, a’ll be bound. Ay, Philip,” continued she, turning 
him round with motherly freedom, ‘ ‘ yo’ll do, if yo’ll but gi’ 
your shoon a polishin’ wipe on yon other mat. This’n for 
takin’ t’ roughest mud off. Measter allays polishes on that.” 

In the square parlour the same precise order was observed. 
Every article of furniture was free from speck of dirt or 
particle of dust ; and each thing was placed either in a 
parallel line, or at exact right angles with every other. Even 
John and Jeremiah sat in symmetry on opposite sides of the 
fireplace ; the very smiles on their honest faces seemed drawn 
to a line of exactitude. 

Such formality, however admirable, was not calculated to 
promote ease ; it was not until after supper — until a good 
quantity of Yorkshire pie had been swallowed, and washed 
down, too, with the best and most generous wine in Jeremiah’s 
cellar — that there was the least geniality among them, in 
spite of the friendly kindness of the host and his brother. 
The long silence, during which mute thanks for the meal 
were given, having come to an end, Jeremiah called for pipes, 
and three of the party began to smoke. 

Politics in those days were tickle subjects to meddle with, 
even in the most private company. The nation was in a 
state of terror against France, and against any at home who 
might be supposed to sympathise with the enormities she 
had just been committing. The oppressive act against 
seditious meetings had been passed the year before ; and 
people were doubtful with what extremity of severity it might 
be construed. Even the law authorities forgot to be im- 
partial ; but either their alarms or their interests made too 
many of them vehement partisans, instead of calm arbiters, 

177 N 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

and thus destroyed the popular confidence in what should 
have been considered the supreme tribunal of justice. Yet, 
for all this, there were some who dared to speak of reform 
of Parliament, as a preliminary step to fair representation of 
the people, and to a reduction of the heavy war taxation 
that was imminent, if not already imposed. But these 
pioneers of 1830 were generally obnoxious. The great body 
of the people gloried in being Tories and haters of the 
French, with whom they were on tenter-hooks to fight — 
almost unaware of the rising reputation of the young 
Corsican warrior, whose name would be used ere a dozen 
years had passed to hush English babies with a terror such 
as that of Marlborough once had for the French. 

At such a place as Monkshaven all these opinions were 
held in excess. One or two might, for the mere sake of 
argument, dispute on certain points of history or govern- 
ment ; but they took care to be very sure of their listeners 
before such arguments touched on anything of the present 
day ; for it had been not unfrequently found that the public 
duty of prosecuting opinions not your own overrode the 
private duty of respecting confidence. Most of the Monks- 
haven politicians confined themselves, therefore, to such 
general questions as these : “ Could an Englishman lick more 
than four Frenchmen at a time ? ” “ What was the proper 

punishment for members of the Corresponding Society 
(correspondence with the French directory), hanging and 
quartering, or burning?” “Would the forthcoming child 
of the Princess of Wales be a boy or a girl ? If a girl, would 
it be more loyal to call it Charlotte or Elizabeth ? ” 

The Fosters were quite secure enough of their guests this 
evening to have spoken freely on politics, had they been so 
inclined. And they did begin on the outrages which had 
been lately offered to the king in crossing St. James’s Park 
to go and open the House of Lords ; but soon, so accustomed 
were their minds to caution and restraint, the talk dropped 
down to the high price of provisions. Bread at Is. 3d. the 
quartern loaf, according to the London test ; wheat at 120s. 

178 


Partnership 

per quarter, as the home-baking northerners viewed the 
matter ; and then the conversation died away to an ominous 
silence. John looked at Jeremiah, as if asking him to begin. 
Jeremiah was the host, and had been a married man. 
Jeremiah returned the look with the same meaning in it. 
John, though a bachelor, was the elder brother. The great 
church bell, brought from the Monkshaven monastery 
centuries ago, high up on the opposite hill-side, began to 
ring nine o’clock ; it was getting late. Jeremiah began : 

“ It seems a bad time for starting any one on business, 
wi’ prices and taxes and bread so dear ; but John and I are 
getting into years, and we’ve no children to follow us : yet 
we would fain draw out of some of our worldly affairs. We 
would like to give up the shop, and stick to banking, to 
which there seemeth a plain path. But first there is the 
stock and goodwill of the shop to be disposed on.” 

A dead pause. This opening was not favourable to the 
hopes of the two moneyless young men who had been 
hoping to succeed their masters by the more gradual process 
of partnership. But it was only the kind of speech that 
had been agreed upon by the two brothers, with a view of 
impressing on Hepburn and Coulson the great and unusual 
responsibility of the situation into which the Fosters wished 
them to enter. In some ways the talk of many was much 
less simple and straightforward in those days than it is now. 
The study of effect shown in the London diners-out of the 
last generation, who prepared their conversation beforehand, 
was not without its parallel in humbler spheres, but for 
different objects than self -display. The brothers Foster had 
all but rehearsed the speeches they were about to make this 
evening. They were aware of the youth of the parties to 
whom they were going to make a most favourable proposal ; 
and they dreaded that, if that proposal was too lightly made, 
it would be too lightly considered, and the duties involved 
in it too carelessly entered upon. So the role of one brother 
was to suggest, that of the other to repress. The young 
men, too, had their reserves. They foresaw, and had long 

179 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

foreseen, what was coming that evening. They were 
impatient to hear it in distinct words ; and yet they had to 
wait, as if unconscious, during all the long preamble. Do 
age and youth never play the same parts now ? To return. 
John Foster replied to his brother ; — 

“ The stock and goodwill ! That would take much wealth. 
And there will be fixtures to be considered. Philip, canst thee 
tell me the exact amount of stock in the shop at present ? ” 

It had only just been taken ; Philip had it at his fingers’ 
ends. “ One thousand nine hundred and forty-one pounds, 
thirteen shillings and twopence.” 

Coulson looked at him in a little dismay, and could not 
repress a sigh. The figures put into words and spoken aloud 
seemed to indicate so much larger an amount of money than 
when quickly written down in numerals. But Philip read 
the countenances — nay, by some process of which he was not 
himself aware, he read the minds — of the brothers, and felt 
no dismay at what he saw there. 

“ And the fixtures ? ” asked John Foster. 

“ The appraiser valued them at two hundred and thirty- 
five pounds, three and sixpence, when father died. We have 
added to them since, but we will reckon them at that. How 
much does that make with the value of the stock ? ” 

“ Two thousand one hundred and seventy-six pounds, 
sixteen shillings and eightpence,” said Philip. 

Coulson had done the sum quicker, but was too much 
disheartened by the amount to speak. 

“And the goodwill?” asked the pitiless John. “ What 
dost thee set that at ? ” 

“ I think, brother, that that would depend on who came 
forward with the purchase-money of the stock and fixtures. 
To some folks we might make it sit easy, if they were known 
to us, and those as we wished well to. If Philip and William 
here, for instance, said they’d like to purchase the business, 
I reckon thee and me would not ask ’em so much as we 
should ask Millers.” (Millers was an upstart petty rival shop 
at the end of the bridge in the New Town.) 

i8o 


Partnership 

“ I wish Philip and William was to come after us,” said 
John. “But that’s out of the question,” he continued, 
knowing all the while that, far from being out of the ques- 
tion, it was the very question, and that it was as good as 
settled at this very time. 

No one spoke. Then Jeremiah went on : — 

“ It’s out of the question, I reckon I ” 

He looked at the two young men. Coulson shook his 
head. Philip more bravely said — 

“ I have fifty-three pounds, seven and fourpence in yo’r 
hands. Master John, and it’s all I have i’ the world.” 

“ It’s a pity,” said John, and again they were silent. 
Half-past nine struck. It was time to be beginning to make 
an end. “ Perhaps, brother, they have friends who could 
advance ’em the money. We might make it sit light to 
them, for the sake of their good service ? ” 

Philip replied — 

“ There’s no one who can put forwards a penny for me : 
I have but few kin, and they have little to spare beyond 
what they need.” 

Coulson said — 

“ My father and mother have nine on us.” 

“ Let alone, let alone ! ” said John, relenting fast ; for he 
was weary of his part of cold, stern prudence. “ Brother, I 
think we have enough of this world’s goods to do what we 
like wi’ our own.” 

Jeremiah was a little scandalized at the rapid melting 
away of assumed character, and took a good pull at his pipe 
before he replied — 

“ Upwards of two thousand pounds is a large sum to set 
on the well-being and well-doing of two lads, the elder of 
whom is not three-and-twenty. I fear me we must look 
farther a-field.” 

“Why, John,” replied Jeremiah, “it was but yesterday 
thee saidst thee would rather have Philip and William than 
any men o’ fifty that thee knowed. And now to bring up 
their youth again’ them ! ” 

i8i 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Well, well ! t’ half on it is thine, and thou shalt do even 
as thou wilt. But I think as I must have security for my 
moiety, for it’s a risk — a great risk. Have ye any security 
to offer ? any expectations ? any legacies, as other folk have 
a life-interest in at present ? ” 

No; neither of them had. So Jeremiah rejoined — 

“ Then, I suppose, I mun do as thee dost, John, and take 
the security of character. And it’s a great security too, lads, 
and t’ best o’ all, and one that I couldn’t ha’ done without ; 
no, not if yo’d pay me down five thousand for goodwill, and 
stock, and fixtures. For John Foster and Son has been a 
shop i’ Monkshaven this eighty years and more; and I 
lunnot think there’s a man living — or dead, for that matter 
-as can say Fosters wronged him of a penny, or gave short 
neasure to a child or a Cousin Betty.” 

They all four shook hands round, with the same heartiness 
as if it had been a legal ceremony necessary to the comple- 
tion of the partnership. The old men’s faces were bright 
with smiles; the eyes of the young ones sparkled with 
hope. 

“ But, after all,” said Jeremiah, “ we’ve not told you 
particulars. Yo’re thanking us for a pig in a poke : but 
we had more forethought, and we put all down on a piece 
o’ paper.” 

He took down a folded piece of paper from the mantel- 
shelf, put on his horn spectacles, and began to read aloud, 
occasionally peering over his glasses to note the effect on 
the countenances of the young men. The only thing he was 
in the habit of reading aloud was a chapter in the Bible 
daily to his housekeeper servant ; and, like many, he reserved 
a peculiar tone for that solemn occupation — a tone which 
he unconsciously employed for the present enumeration of 
pounds, shillings, and pence. 

“ Average returns of the last three years, one hundred 
and twenty-seven pounds, three shillings, and seven pence 
and one-sixth a week. Profits thereupon thirty-four per 
cent. — as near as may be. Clear profits of the concern, after 

182 


Partnership 

deducting all expenses except rent — for t’ house is our own 
— one thousand two hundred and two pound a year.” 

This was far more than either Hepburn or Coulson had 
imagined it to be ; and a look of surprise, almost amounting 
to dismay, crept over their faces, in spite of their endeavour 
to keep simply motionless and attentive. 

“ It’s a deal of money, lads, and the Lord give you grace 
to guide it,” said Jeremiah, putting down his paper for a 
minute. 

“ Amen,” said John, shaking his head to give effect to 
his word. 

“ Now what we propose is this,” continued Jeremiah, be- 
ginning afresh to refer to his paper : “We will call t’ value 
of stock and fixtures two thousand one hundred and fifty. 
You may have John Holden, appraiser and auctioneer, in to 
set a price on them if yo’ will ; or yo’ may look over books, 
and bills ; or better stiU, do both, and so check one again 
t’other ; but, for t’ sake o’ making the ground o’ the bargain, 
I state the sum as above ; and I reckon it so much capital 
left ‘in yo’r hands, for the use o’ which yo’re bound to pay 
us five per cent, quarterly — that’s one hundred and seven 
pound ten per annum at least for t’ first year ; and after it 
will be reduced by the gradual payment on our money, which 
must be at the rate of twenty per cent., thus paying us our 
principal back in five years. And the rent, including all 
back-yards, right of wharfage, warehouse, and premises, is 
reckoned by us to be sixty-five pound per annum. So yo’ 
will have to pay us, John and Jeremiah Foster, brothers, 
six hundred and twelve pound ten out of the profits of the 
first year, leaving, at the present rate of profits, about five 
hundred and eighty-nine pound ten, for the share to be 
divided between yo’.” 

The plan had, in all its details, been carefully arranged 
by the two brothers. They were afraid lest Hepburn and 
Coulson should be dazzled by the amount of profits, and had 
so arranged the sliding-scale of payment as to reduce the 
first year’s income to what the elder men thought a very 

183 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

moderate sum, but what to the younger ones appeared an 
amount of wealth such as they, who had neither of them 
ever owned much more than fifty pounds, considered almost 
inexhaustible. It was certainly a remarkable instance of 
prosperity and desert meeting together so early in life. 

For a moment or two the brothers were disappointed at 
not hearing any reply from either of them. Then Phihp 
stood up, for he felt as if anything he could say sitting down 
would not be sufficiently expressive of gratitude, and William 
instantly followed his example. Hepburn began in a formal 
manner, something the way in which he had read in the 
York newspapers that honourable members returned thanks 
when their health was given. 

“ I can hardly express my feelings ” (Coulson nudged 
him) “ his feelings, too — of gratitude. Oh, Master John ! 
Master Jeremiah, I thought it might come i’ time ; nay. I’ve 
thought it might come afore long ; but I niver thought as it 
would be so much, or made so easy. We’ve got good kind 
friends — we have, have we not, William ? — and we’ll do our 
best, and I hope as we shall come up to their wishes.” 

Philip’s voice quivered a little, as some remembrance 
passed across his mind ; at this unusual moment of 
expansion out it came. - “ I wish mother could ha’ seen 
this day.” 

“ She shall see a better day, my lad, when thy name and 
William’s is painted over t’ shop-door, and J. and J. Foster 
blacked out.” 

“ Nay, master,” said William, “ that mun never be. I’d 
a’most sooner not come in for the business. Anyhow, it must 
be ‘ late J. and J. Foster,’ and I’m not sure as I can stomach 
that.” 

“ Well, well, William,” said John Foster, highly gratified, 
“ there’U be time enough to talk over that. There was one 
thing more to be said, was there not, brother Jeremiah ? We 
do not wish to have this talked over in Monkshaven until 
shortly before the time when yo’ must enter on the business. 
We have our own arrangements to make wi’ regard to the 

184 


Partnership 

banking concern, and there’ll be lawyer’s work to do, after 
yo’ve examined books and looked over stock again together ; 
mayhe we’ve overstated it, or t’ fixtures aren’t worth so much 
as we said. Anyhow yo’ must each on yo’ give us yo’r word 
for to keep fra’ naming this night’s conversation to any one. 
Meantime, Jeremiah and I will have to pay accounts, and 
take a kind of farewell of the merchants and manufacturers 
with whom Fosters have had dealings this seventy or eighty 
year ; and, when and where it seems fitting to us, we will 
take one of yo’ to introduce as our successors and friends. 
But all that’s to come. But yo’ must each give us yo’r word 
not to name what has passed here to any one, till further 
speech on the subject has passed between us.” 

Coulson immediately gave the promise. Philip’s assent 
came lagging. He had thought of Sylvia living, almost as 
much as of the dead mother, whose last words had been a 
committal of her child to the Father of the friendless ; and, 
now that a short delay was placed between the sight of the 
cup and his enjoyment of it, there was an impatient chafing 
in the mind of the composed and self-restrained Philip ; and 
then repentance quick as lightning effaced the feeling, and he 
pledged himself to the secrecy which was enjoined. Some few 
more details as to their mode of procedure — of verifying the 
Fosters’ statements, which to the younger men seemed a 
perfectly unnecessary piece of business — of probable journeys 
and introductions ; and then farewell was bidden, and Hep- 
burn and Coulson were in the passage donning their wraps 
and, rather to their indignation, being assisted therein by 
Martha, who was accustomed to the office with her own 
f master. Suddenly they were recalled into the parlour. 

John Foster was fumbling with the papers a little 
nervously : Jeremiah spoke — 

“ We have not thought it necessary to commend Hester 
Rose to you ; if she had been a lad, she would have had a 
third o’ the business along wi’ yo’. Being a woman, it’s ill 
troubling her with a partnership ; better give her a fixed 
salary till such time as she marries.” 

185 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

He looked a little knowingly and curiously at the faces of 
the young men he addressed. William Coulson seemed 
sheepish and uncomfortable, but said nothing, leaving it as 
usual to Philip to be spokesman. 

“ If we hadn’t cared for Hester for hersel’, master, we 
should ha’ cared for her as being forespoken by yo’. Yo’ 
and Master John shall fix what we ought t’ pay her ; and I 
think I may make bold to say that, as our income rises, hers 
shall too — eh, Coulson ? ” (a sound of assent quite distinct 
enough) “ for we both look on her as a sister, and on Alice 
like a mother, as I told her only this very day.” 


CHAPTEE XV 

A DIFFICULT QUESTION 

Philip went to bed with that kind of humble penitent grati- 
tude in his heart, which we sometimes feel after a sudden 
revulsion of feeling from despondency to hope. The night 
before, it seemed as if all events were so arranged as to 
thwart him in his dearest wishes ; he felt now as if his 
discontent and repining, not twenty-four hours before, had 
been almost impious, so great was the change in his circum- 
stances for the better. Now all seemed promising for the 
fulfilment of what he most desired. He was almost con- 
vinced that he was mistaken in thinking that Kinraid had 
had anything more than a sailor’s admiration for a pretty 
girl with regard to Sylvia ; at any rate, he was going away 
to-morrow, in all probability not to return for another year 
(for Greenland ships left for the northern seas as soon as 
there was a chance of the ice being broken up), and ere then 
he himself might speak out openly, laying before her parents 
all his fortunate prospects, and before her all his deep 
passionate love. 


i86 


A Difficult Question 

So this night his prayers were more than the mere form 
that they had been the night before ; they were a vehement 
expression of gratitude to God for having, as it wem, inter- 
fered on his behalf, to grant him the desire of his eyes and the 
lust of his heart. He was like too many of us : he did not 
place his future hfe in the hands of God, and only, ask for 
grace to do His will in whatever circumstances might arise ; 
but he yearned in that terrible way after a blessing which, 
when granted under such circumstances, too often turns out 
to be equivalent to a curse. And that spirit brings with it the 
natural and earthly idea that all events that favour our 
wishes are answers to our prayer ; and so they are in one 
sense ; but they need prayer in a deeper and higher spirit to 
keep us from the temptation to evil which such events in- 
variably bring with them. 

Philip little knew how Sylvia’s time had been passed 
that day. If he had, he would have lain down this night 
with even a heavier heart than he had done on the last. 

Charley Kinraid accompanied his cousins as far as the 
spot where the path to Haytersbank Farm diverged. Then 
he stopped his merry talk, and announced his intention of 
going to see Farmer Eobson. Bessy Gorney looked dis- 
appointed and a little sulky ; but her sister Molly Brunton 
laughed and said — 

“ Tell truth, lad ! Dannel Eobson ’d never have a call fra’ 
thee, if he hadn’t a pretty daughter.” 

“ Indeed, but he would,” replied Charley, rather annoyed ; 
“ when I’ve said a thing, I do it. I promised last night to go 
see him ; besides, I like the old man.” 

“ Well ! when shall we tell mother yo’re cornin’ whoam ? ” 

“ Toward eight o’clock — maybe sooner.” 

“ Why, it’s bare five now ! bless t’ lad, does he think o’ 
staying theere a’ neet, and they up so late last night, and 
Mrs. Eobson ailing beside ? Mother ’ll not think it kind on 
yo’ either, will she, Bess ? ” 

“ I dunno. Charley mun do as he likes ; I daresay no 
one’ll miss him if he does bide away till eight.” 

187 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Well, well ! I can’t tell what I shall do ; but yo’d best 
not stop lingering here, for it’s getting on, and there’ll be a 
keen frost by t’ look o’ the stars.” 

Haytersbank was closed for the night as far as it ever was 
closed ; there were no shutters to the windows, nor did they 
care to draw the inside curtains, so few were the passers-by. 
The house-door was fastened ; but the shippen-door, a little 
on in the same long low block of building, stood open, and a 
dim light made an oblong upon the snowy ground outside. 
As Kinraid drew near he heard talking there, and a woman’s 
voice ; he threw a passing glance through the window into 
the fire-lit house-place, and, seeing Mrs. Eobson asleep by the 
fire-side in her easy-chair, he went on. 

There was the intermittent sound of the sharp whistling 
of milk into the pail, and Kester, sitting on a three-legged 
stool, cajoling a capricious cow into letting her fragrant 
burden flow. Sylvia stood near the farther window-ledge, on 
which a horn lantern was placed, pretending to knit at a 
grey worsted stocking ; but, in reality, laughing at Kester’s 
futile endeavours, and finding quite enough to do with her 
eyes, in keeping herself untouched by the whisking tail, or 
the occasional kick. The frosty air was mellowed by the 
warm and odorous breath of the cattle — breath that hung 
about the place in faint misty clouds. There was only a dim 
light ; such as it was, it was not clearly defined against the 
dark heavy shadow in which the old black rafters and 
manger and partitions were enveloped. 

As Charley came to the door, Kester was saying, “ Quiet 
wi’ thee, wench ! Theere now, she’s a beauty, if she’ll stand 
still. There’s niver sich a cow i’ t’ Eiding, if she’ll only 
behave hersel’. She’s a bonny lass, she is ; let down her 
milk, theere’s a pretty ! ” 

“ Why, Kester,” laughed Sylvia, “ thou’rt asking her for 
her milk wi’ as many pretty speeches as if thou wert wooing 
a wife ! ” 

“ Hey, lass ! ” said Kester, turning a bit towards her, and 
shutting one eye to cock the other the better upon her ; an 

i88 


A Difficult Question 

operation which puckered up his already wrinkled face into 
a thousand new lines and folds. “ An’ how does thee know 
how a man woos a wife, that thee talks so knowin’ about 
it ? That’s tellin’. Some un’s been tryin’ it on thee,” 

“ There’s niver a one been so impudent,” said Sylvia, 
reddening and tossing her head a little, “I’d like to see 
’em try me ! ” 

“ Well, well ! ” said Kester, wilfully misunderstanding 
her meaning, “ thou mun be patient, wench ; and, if thou’s 
a good lass, maybe thy turn ’ll come and they’ll try it.” 

“ I wish thou’d talk of what thou’s some knowledge on, 
Kester, i’ stead of i’ that silly way,” replied Sylvia. 

“ Then a mun talk no more ’bout women, for they’re 
past knowin’, an’ druv e’en King Solomon silly.” 

At this moment Charley stepped in. Sylvia gave a little 
start and dropped her ball of worsted. Kester made as 
though absorbed in his task of cajoling Black Nell; but 
his eyes and ears were both vigilant. 

“ I was going into the house ; but I saw yo’r mother 
asleep, and I didn’t like to waken her; so I just came on 
here. Is your father to the fore ? ” 

“No,” said Sylvia, hanging down her head a httle, 
wondering if he could have heard the way in which she 
and Kester had been talking, and thinking over her little 
foolish jokes with anger against herself. “ Father is gone 
to Winthrop about some pigs as he’s heerd on. He’ll not 
be back till seven o’clock or so.” 

It was but half-past five, and Sylvia in the irritation of 
the moment believed that she wished Kinraid would go. 
But she would have been extremely disappointed if he had. 
Kinraid himself seemed to have no thought of the kind. He 
saw with his quick eyes, not unaccustomed to women, that 
his coming so unexpectedly had fluttered Sylvia ; and, anxious 
to make her quite at her ease with him, and not unwilling 
to conciliate Kester, he addressed his next speech to him, 
with the same kind of air of interest in the old man’s 
pursuit that a young man of a different class sometimes 

189 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

puts on when talking to the chaperon of a pretty girl in 
a ball-room. 

“ That’s a handsome beast yo’ve just been milking, 
master.” 

“ Ay ; but handsome is as handsome does. It were only 
yesterday as she aimed her leg right at t’ pail wi’ t’ afterings 
in. She knowed it were afterings as well as any Christian, 
and t’ more t’ mischief t’ better she likes it ; an’, if a hadn’t 
been too quick for her, it would have a’ gone swash down i’ 
t’ litter. This’n ’s a far better cow i’ t’ long run, she’s just a 
steady goer,” as the milky down-pour came musical and even 
from the stall next to Black Nell’s. 

Sylvia was knitting away vigorously, thinking all the 
while that it was a great pity she had not put on a better 
gown, or even a cap with brighter ribbon, and quite uncon- 
scious how very pretty she looked standing against the faint 
light, her head a little bent down ; her hair catching bright 
golden touches, as it fell from under her little linen cap ; her 
pink bedgown, confined by her apron-string, giving a sort of 
easy grace to her figure ; her dark, full hnsey petticoat short 
above her trim ankles, looking far more suitable to the 
place where she was standing than her long gown of the 
night before would have done. Kinraid was wanting to talk 
to her, and to make her talk, but was uncertain how to begin. 
In the meantime Kester went on with the subject last spoken 
about. 

“ Black Nell’s at her fourth calf now, so she ought to ha’ 
left off her tricks and turned sober-like. But bless yo’, there’s 
some cows as ’ll be skittish till they’re fat for t’ butcher. 
Not but what a like milking her better nor a steady goer ; a 
man has allays summat to be watchin’ for ; and a’m kind o’ 
set up when a’ve mastered her at last. T’ young missus 
theere, she’s mighty fond o’ cornin’ t’ see Black Nell at her 
tantrums. She’d niver come near me, if a’ cows were hke 
this’n.” 

“ Do you often come and see the cows milked ? ” asked 
Kinraid. 


A Difficult Question 

“ Many a time,” said Sylvia, smiling a bit. “ Why, when 
we’re throng, I help Kester ; but now we’ve only Black Nell 
and Daisy giving milk. Kester knows as I can milk Black 
Nell quite easy,” she continued, half-vexed that Kester had 
not named this accomplishment. 

“Ay! when she’s in a good frame o’ mind, as she is 
sometimes. But t’ difficulty is to milk her at all times.” 

“I wish I’d come a bit sooner. I should like t’ have 
seen you milk Black Nell,” addressing Sylvia. 

“ Yo’d better come to-morrow e’en, and see what a hand 
she’ll mak’ on her,” said Kester. 

“To-morrow night I shall be far on my road back to 
Shields.” 

“ To-morrow 1 ” said Sylvia, suddenly looking up at him, 
and then dropping her eyes, as she found he had been 
watching for the effect of his intelligence on her. 

“ I mun be back at t’ whaler, where I’m engaged,” con- 
tinued he. “ She’s fitting up after a fresh fashion, and as 
I’ve been one as wanted new ways, I mun be on the spot for 
t’ look after her. Maybe I shall take a run down here afore 
sailing in March. I’m sure I shall try.” 

There was a good deal meant and understood by these 
last few words. The tone in which they were spoken gave 
them a tender intensity not lost upon either of the hearers. 
Kester cocked his eye once more, but with as little obtrusive- 
ness as he could, and pondered the sailor’s looks and ways. 
He remembered his coming about the place the winter before, 
and how the old master had then appeared to have taken to 
him ; but at that time Sylvia had seemed to Kester too little 
removed from a child to have either art or part in Kinraid’s 
visits ; now, however, the case was different. Kester in his 
sphere — among his circle of acquaintance, narrow though it 
was — had heard with much pride of Sylvia’s bearing away 
the bell at church and at market, wherever girls of her age 
were congregated. He was a north countryman ; so he gave 
out no further sign of his feelings than his mistress and 
Sylvia’s mother had done on a like occasion. 

191 


4 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ T’ lass is weel enough,” said he ; but he grinned to him- 
self, and looked about, and listened to the hearsay of every 
lad, wondering who was handsome, and brave, and good 
enough to be Sylvia’s mate. Now, of late, it had seemed to 
the canny farm-servant pretty clear that Philip Hepburn was 
“ after her ” ; and to Philip, Kester had an instinctive 
objection, a kind of natural antipathy such as has existed in 
all ages between the dwellers in a town and those in the 
country, between agriculture and trade. So, while Kinraid 
and Sylvia kept up their half-tender, half -jesting conversa- 
tion, Kester was making up his slow, persistent mind as to 
the desirability of the young man then present as a husband 
for his darling : as much from his being other than Philip 
in every respect, as from the individual good qualities he 
possessed. Kester’ s first opportunity of favouring Kinraid’ s 
suit consisted in being as long as possible over his milking ; 
so never were cows that required such “ stripping,” or were 
expected to yield such “ afterings,” as Black Nell and Daisy 
that night. But all things must come to an end; and at 
length Kester got up from his three-legged stool, on seeing 
what the others did not — that the dip-candle in the lantern 
was coming to an end — and that in two or three minutes 
more the shippen would be in darkness, and so his pails of 
milk be endangered. In an instant Sylvia had started out 
of her delicious dreamland ; her drooping eyes were raised, 
and recovered their power of observation ; her ruddy arms 
were freed from the apron in which she had enfolded them, 
as a protection from the gathering cold ; and she had seized 
and adjusted the wooden yoke across her shoulders, ready to 
bear the brimming milk-pails to the dairy. 

“ Look yo’ at her ! ” exclaimed Kester to Charley, as he 
adjusted the fragrant pails on the yoke. “ She thinks she’s 
missus a’ready, and she’s allays for carrying in t’ milk since 
t’ rhumatiz cotched my shouther i’ t’ back end; and when 
she says ‘ Yea,’ it’s as much as my heed’s worth to say 
‘ Nay.’ ” 

And along the wall, round the corner, down the round 
192 


A Difficult Question 

slippery stones of the rambling farm-yard, behind the build- 
ings, did Sylvia trip, safe and well-poised, though the ground 
was all one coating of white snow, and in many places was 
so slippery as to oblige Kinraid to linger near Kester, the 
lantern-bearer. Kester did not lose his opportunity ; though 
the cold misty night air provoked his asthmatic cough when- 
ever he breathed, and often interrupted his words. 

“She’s a good wench — a good wench as iver was— an’ 
come on a good stock, an’ that’s summat, whether in a cow 
or a woman. A’ve known her from a babby ; she’s a reet 
down good un.’’ 

By this time they had reached the back-kitchen door, 
just as Sylvia had unladen herself, and was striking a light 
with flint and tinder. The house seemed warm and in- 
viting after the piercing outer air ; although the kitchen into 
which they entered contained only a raked and slumbering 
fire at one end, over which, on a crook, hung the immense 
pan of potatoes cooking for the evening meal of the pigs. 
To this pan Kester immediately addressed himself, swinging 
it round with ease, owing to the admirable simplicity of the 
old-fashioned machinery. Kinraid stood between Kester 
and the door into the dairy, through which Sylvia had 
vanished with the milk. He half wished to conciliate Kester 
by helping him ; but he seemed also attracted, by a force 
which annihilated his will, to follow her wherever she went. 
Kester read his mind. 

“ Let alone, let alone,” said he ; “ pigs’ vittle takes noane 
such dainty carryin’ as milk. A may set it down an’ niver 
spill a drop ; she’s noane fit for t’ serve swine, nor yo’ other, 
mester; better help her t’ teem t’ milk.” 

So Kinraid followed the light — his light — into the icy 
chill of the dairy, where the bright polished tin cans were 
quickly dimmed with the warm, sweet-smelling milk, that 
Sylvia was emptying out into the brown pans. In his haste 
to help her, Charley took up one of the pails. 

“ Eh ! that’n ’s to be strained. Yo’ have a’ the cow’s 
hair in. Mother’s very particular, and cannot abide a hair.” 

193 0 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

So she went over to her awkward dairymaid, and before 
she — but not before he — was aware of the sweet proximity, 
she was adjusting his happy awkward arms to the new office 
of holding a milk-strainer over the bowl, and pouring the 
white liquid through it. 

There ! ” said she, looking up for a moment, and half 
blushing ; “ now yo’ll know how to do it next time.” 

“ I wish next time was to come now,” said Kinraid ; but 
she had returned to her own pail, and seemed not to hear 
him. He followed her to her side of the dairy. “ I’ve but 
a short memory, can yo’ not show me again how t’ hold t’ 
strainer ? ” 

“No,” said she, half laughing, but holding her strainer 
fast, in spite of his insinuating efforts to unlock her fingers. 
“ But there’s no need to tell me yo’ve gotten a short 
memory.” 

“ Why ! what have I done ? how dun you know it ? ” 

“ Last night . . .” she began, and then she stopped, and 
turned a\/ay her head, pretending to be busy in her dairy 
duties of rinsing and such like. 

“ Well ! ” said he, half conjecturing her meaning, and 
flattered by it, if his conjecture were right. “ Last night — 
what ? ” 

“ Oh, yo’ know ! ” said she, as if impatient at being both 
literally and metaphorically followed about and driven into a 
corner. 

“ No ; tell me,” persisted he. 

“ Well,” said she, “ if yo’ will have it, I think yo’ showed 
yo’d but a short memory when yo’ didn’t know me again ; and 
yo’ were five times at this house last winter, and that’s not 
so long sin’. But I suppose yo’ see a vast o’ things on yo’r 
voyages by land or by sea, and then it’s but natural yo’ 
should forget.” She wished she could go on talking, but 
could not think of anything more to say just then ; for, in 
the middle of her sentence, the flattering interpretation he 
might put upon her words, on her knowing so exactly the 
number of times he had been to Haytersbank, flashed upon 

194 


A Difficult Question 

her, and she wanted to lead the conversation a little farther 
afield — to make it a little less personal. This was not his 
wish, however. In a tone which thrilled through her, even 
in her own despite, he said — 

“ Do yo’ think that can ever happen again, Sylvia ? ” 

She was quite silent; almost trembling. He repeated 
the question, as if to force her to answer. Driven to bay, 
she equivocated. 

“ What happen again ? Let me go ; I dunno what yo’re 
talking about, and I’m a’most numbed wi’ cold.” 

For the frosty air came sharp in through the open lattice 
window, and the ice was already forming on the milk. Kin- 
raid would have found a ready way of keeping his cousins, 
or indeed most young women, warm ; but he paused before 
he dared put his arm round Sylvia ; she had something so 
shy and wild in her look and manner ; and her very inno- 
cence of what her words, spoken by another girl, might lead 
to, inspired him with respect, and kept him in check. So 
he contented himself with saying— 

“ I’ll let yo’ go into t’ warm kitchen if yo’ll tell me if yo’ 
think I can ever forget yo’ again.” 

She looked up at him defiantly, and set her red lips firm. 
He enjoyed her determination not to reply to this question ; 
it showed she felt its significance. Her pure eyes looked 
steadily into his ; nor was the expression in his such as to 
daunt her or make her afraid. They were like two children 
defying each other; each determined to conquer. At last 
she unclosed her lips, and nodding her head as if in triumph, 
said, as she folded her arms once more in her check apron — 
“ Yo’ll have to go home some time.” 

“ Not for a couple of hours yet,” said he ; “ and yo’ll be 
frozen first ; so yo’d better say if I can ever forget yo’ again, 
without more ado.” 

Perhaps the fresh voices breaking on the silence — perhaps 
the tones were less modulated than they had been before — 
but anyhow Bell Hobson’s voice was heard calling Sylvia 
through the second door, which opened from the dairy to the 

195 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

house-place, in which her mother had been till this moment 
asleep. Sylvia darted off in obedience to the call ; glad to 
leave him, as at the moment Kinraid resentfully imagined. 
Through the open door he heard the conversation between 
mother and daughter, almost unconscious of its meaning : so 
difificult did he find it to wrench his thoughts from the ideas 
he had just been forming, with Sylvia’s bright, lovely face 
right under his eyes. 

“ Sylvia ! ” said her mother, “ who’s yonder ? ” Bell was 
sitting up in the attitude of one startled out of slumber into 
intensity of listening ; her hands on each of the chair-arms, 
as if just going to rise. “ There’s a fremd man i’ t’ house. 
I heerd his voice ! ” 

“ It’s only — it’s just Charley Kinraid ; he was a-talking 
to me i’ t’ dairy.” 

“ I’ t’ dairy, lass ! and how corn’d he i’ t’ dairy ? ” 

“ He corn’d to see feytber. Feyther asked him last 
night,” said Sylvia, conscious that he could overhear every 
word that was said, and a little suspecting that he was no 
great favourite with her mother. 

“ Thy feyther’s out ; how corn’d he i’ t’ dairy ? ” per- 
severed Bell. 

“ He corn’d past this window, and saw yo’ asleep, and 
didn’t like for t’ waken yo’ ; so he corn’d on to t’ shippen, 
and when I carried t’ milk in ” 

But now Kinraid came in, feeling the awkwardness of 
his situation a little, yet with an expression so pleasant and 
manly in his open face, and in his exculpatory manner, that 
Sylvia lost his first words in a strange kind of pride of 
possession in him, about which she did not reason nor care 
to define the grounds. But her mother rose from her chair 
somewhat formally, as if she did not intend to sit down again 
while he stayed, yet was too weak to be kept in that standing 
attitude long. 

“ I’m afeared, sir, Sylvie hasn’t told yo’ that my master’s 
out, and not like to be in till late. He’ll be main and sorry 
to have missed yo’.” 


196 


A Difficult Question 

There was nothing for it after this but to go. His only 
comfort was that on Sylvia’s rosy face he could read unmis- 
takable signs of regret and dismay. His sailor’s life, in 
bringing him suddenly face to face with unexpected events, 
had given him something of that self-possession which we 
consider the attribute of a gentleman ; and, with an apparent 
calmness which almost disappointed Sylvia, who construed 
it into a symptom of indifference as to whether he went or 
stayed, he bade her mother good-night, and only said, in 
holding her hand a minute longer than was absolutely 
necessary — 

“ I’m coming back ere I sail ; and then, maybe, you’ll 
answer yon question.” 

He spoke low, and her mother was re-arranging herself 
in her chair ; else Sylvia would have had to repeat the previous 
words. As it was, with soft thrilling ideas ringing through 
her, she could get her wheel, and sit down to her spinning by 
the fire ; waiting for her mother to speak first, Sylvia dreamt 
her dreams. 

Bell Eobson was partly aware of the state of things, as 
far as it lay on the surface. She was not aware how deep 
down certain feelings had penetrated into the girl’s heart 
who sat on the other side of the fire, with a little sad air 
diffused over her face and figure. Bell looked upon Sylvia 
as still a child, to be warned off forbidden things by threats 
of danger. But the forbidden thing was already tasted ; and 
possible danger in its full acquisition only served to make it 
more precious -sweet. 

Bell sat upright in her chair, gazing into the fire. Her 
milk-white linen mob-cap fringed round and softened her 
face, from which the usual apple- red was banished by illness, 
while the features were, from the same cause, rendered more 
prominent and stern. She had a clean buff kerchief round 
her neck, and stuffed into the bosom of her Sunday woollen 
gown of dark blue — if she had been in working-trim, she 
would have worn a bed-gown like Sylvia’s. Her sleeves 
were pinned back at the elbows, and her brown arms and 

197 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

hard-working hands lay crossed in unwonted idleness on her 
check apron. Her knitting was by her side ; and, if she had 
been going through any accustomed calculation or con- 
sideration, she would have had it busily clinking in her 
fingers. But she had something quite beyond common to 
think about, and, perhaps, to speak about; and for the 
minute she was not equal to knitting. 

“ Sylvie,” she began at length, “ did I e’er tell thee on 
Nancy Hartley, as I knew when I were a child ? I’m think- 
ing a deal on her to-night ; maybe it’s because I’ve been 
dreaming on yon old times. She was a bonny lass as ever 
were seen, I’ve heerd folk say ; but that were afore I knew 
her. When I knew her she were crazy, poor wench ; wi’ 
her black hair a-streaming down her back, and her eyes, as 
were a ’most as black, allays crying out for pity, though 
never a word she spoke but ‘ He once was here.’ Just that, 
o’er and o’er again, whether she were cold or hot, full or 
hungry, ‘ He once was here,’ were all her speech. She had 
been farm-servant to my mother’s brother — James Hepburn, 
thy great-uncle as was ; she were a poor, friendless wench, a 
parish 'prentice, but honest and gaum-like, till a lad, as 
nobody knowed, come o’er the hills one sheep-shearing fra’ 
Whitehaven ; he had summat to do wi’ th’ sea, though not 
rightly to be called a sailor ; and he made a deal on Nancy 
Hartley, just to beguile the time like ; and he went away and 
ne’er sent a thought after her more. It’s the way as lads 
have ; and there’s no holding ’em when they’re fellows as 
nobody knows — neither where they come fro’ nor what 
they’ve been doing a’ their lives, till they come athwart some 
poor wench like Nancy Hartley. She were but a softy after 
all ; for she left off doing her work in a proper manner. 
I’ve heerd my aunt say as she found out as summat was 
wrong wi’ Nancy as soon as th’ milk turned bingy, for 
there ne’er had been such a clean lass about her milk- 
cans afore that; and from bad it grew to worse; and 
she would sit and do nothing but play wi’ her fingers fro’ 
morn till night ; and, if they asked her what ailed her, she 

198 


The Engagement 

just said, ‘ He once was here ’ ; and, if they bid her go about 
her work, it were a’ the same. And when they scolded her, 
and pretty sharp too, she would stand up and put her hair 
from her eyes, and look about her like a crazy thing search- 
ing for her wits, and ne’er finding them ; for all she could 
think on was just, ‘ He once was here.’ It were a caution 
to me again’ thinking a man t’ mean what he says when he’s 
a-talking to a young woman.” 

“ But what became on poor Nancy? ” asked Sylvia. 

“ What should become on her or on any lass as gives 
hersel’ up to thinking on a man who cares nought for her? ” 
replied her mother, a little severely. “ She were crazed, and 
my aunt couldn’t keep her on, could she ? She did keep her 
a long weary time, thinking as she would, maybe, come to 
hersel’, and, anyhow, she were a motherless wench. But at 
length she had for t’ go where she came fro’ — back to Kes- 
wick workhouse : and when last I heerd on her she were 
chained to th’ great kitchen dresser i’ t’ workhouse ; they’d 
beaten her till she were taught to be silent and quiet i’ th’ 
daytime ; but at night, when she were left alone, she would 
take up th’ oud cry, till it wrung their heart ; so they’d many 
a time to come down and beat her again to get any peace. 
It were a caution to me, as I said afore, to keep fro’ thinking 
on men as thought nought on me.” 

“ Poor crazy Nancy ! ” sighed Sylvia. The mother won- 
dered if she had taken the “ caution ” to herself, or was only 
full of pity for the mad girl, dead long before. 


CHAPTEE XVI 

THE ENGAGEMENT 

“ As the day lengthens, so the cold strengthens. ” It was so 
that year ; the hard frost which began on New Year’s Eve 
lasted on and on into late February, black and bitter, but 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

welcome enough to the farmers, as it kept back the too early 
growth of autumn-sown wheat, and gave them the oppor- 
tunity of leading manure. But it did not suit invalids as 
well; and Bell Eobson, though not getting worse, did not 
make any progress towards amendment. Sylvia was kept 
very busy, notwithstanding that she had the assistance of a 
poor widow-woman in the neighbourhood on cleaning, or 
washing, or churning days. Her life was quiet and monoto- 
nous, although hard-working ; and, while her hands mechani- 
cally found and did their accustomed labour, the thoughts 
that rose in her head always centred on Charley Kinraid, 
his ways, his words, his looks : whether they all meant what 
she would fain believe they did, and whether, meaning love 
at the time, such a feeling was likely to endure. Her 
mother’s story of crazy Nancy had taken hold of her ; but 
not as a “ caution,” rather as a parallel case to her own. 
Like Nancy, and borrowing the poor girl’s own words, she 
would say softly to herself, “ He once was here ” ; but all 
along she believed in her heart he would come back again to 
her, though it touched her strangely to imagine the agonies 
of forsaken love. 

Philip knew little of all this. He was very busy with 
facts and figures, doggedly fighting through the necessary 
business, and only now and then allowing himself the 
delicious relaxation of going to Haytersbank in an evening, 
to inquire after his aunt’s health, and to see Sylvia ; for the 
two Fosters were punctiliously anxious to make their shop- 
men test all their statements, insisting on an examination 
of the stock, as if Hepburn and Coulson were strangers to 
the shop ; having the Monkshaven auctioneer in to appraise 
the fixtures and necessary furniture ; going over the shop 
books for the last twenty years with their successors, an 
employment which took up evening after evening ; and not 
unfrequently taking one of the young men on the long 
commercial journeys which were tediously made in a gig. 
By degrees both Hepburn and Coulson were introduced to 
distant manufacturers and wholesale dealers. They would 

200 


The Engagement 

have been willing to take the Fosters’ word for every state- 
ment the brothers had made on New Year’s Day ; but this, 
it was evident, would not have satisfied their masters, who 
were scrupulous in insisting that whatever advantage there 
was should always fall on the side of the younger men. 

When Philip saw Sylvia, she was always quiet and gentle ; 
perhaps more silent than she had been a year ago, and she 
did not attend so briskly to what was passing around her. 
She was rather thinner and paler ; but whatever change 
there was in her was always an improvement in Philip’s 
eyes, so long as she spoke graciously to him. He thought 
she was suffering from long- continued anxiety about her 
mother, or that she had too much to do ; and either cause 
was enough to make him treat her with a grave regard and 
deference which had a repressed tenderness in it, but of which 
she, otherwise occupied, was quite unaware. She liked him 
better, too, than she had done a year or two before, because 
he did not show her any of the eager attention which teased 
her then, although its meaning was not fully understood. 

Things were much in this state, when the frost broke and 
milder weather succeeded. This was the time so long looked 
forward to by the invalid and her friends, as favouring the 
doctor’s recommendation of change of air. Her husband was 
to take her to spend a fortnight with a kindly neighbour, 
who lived near the farm they had occupied, forty miles or so 
inland, before they came to Haytersbank. The widow- 
woman was to come and stay in the house, to keep Sylvia 
company, during her mother’s absence. Daniel, indeed, was 
to return home after convoying his wife to her destination ; 
but there was so much to be done on the land at this time of 
the year that Sylvia would have been alone all day, had it 
not been for the arrangement just mentioned. 

There was active stirring in Monkshaven harbour as well 
as on shore. The whalers were finishing their fittings-out 
for the Greenland seas. It was a “ close ” season, that is to 
say, there would be difficulty in passing the barrier of ice 
which lay between the ships and the whaling-grounds ; and 

201 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

yet these must be reached before June, or the year’s 
expedition would be of little avail. Every blacksmith’s shop 
rang with the rhythmical clang of busy hammers, beating 
out old iron, such as horseshoes, nails or stubs, into the 
great harpoons; the quays were thronged with busy and 
important sailors, rushing hither and thither, conscious of the 
demand in which they were held at this season of the year. 
It was war time, too. Many captains unable to procure men 
in Monkshaven would have to complete their crews in the 
Shetlands. The shops in the town were equally busy; 
stores had to be purchased by the whaling-masters, warm 
clothing of all sorts to be provided. These were the larger 
wholesale orders ; but many a man, and woman, too, brought 
out their small hoards to purchase extra comforts, or 
precious keepsakes, for some beloved one. It was the time 
of the great half-yearly traffic of the place : another impetus 
was given to business when the whalers returned in the 
autumn, and the men were flush of money, and full of 
delight at once more seeing their homes and their friends. 

There was much to be done in Fosters’ shop, and later 
hours were kept than usual. Some perplexity or other was 
occupying John and Jeremiah Foster; their minds were not 
so much on the alert as usual, being engaged on some 
weighty matter of which they had as yet spoken to no one. 
But it thus happened that they did not give the prompt 
assistance they were accustomed to render at such times ; 
and Coulson had been away on some of the new expeditions 
devolving on him and Philip as future partners. One 
evening, after the shop was closed, while they were examining 
the goods, and comparing the sales with the entries in the 
day-book, Coulson suddenly inquired — 

“ By the way, Hester, does thee know where the parcel 
of best bandanas is gone ? There was four left, as I’m pretty 
sure, when I set off to Sandsend ; and to-day Mark Alderson 
came in, and would fain have had one, and I could And none 
nowhere.” 

“ I sold t’ last to-day, to yon sailor, the specksioneer, who 
202 


The Engagement 

fought the press-gang same time as poor Darley were killed. 
He took it, and three yards of yon pink ribbon wi’ t’ black 
and yellow crosses on it, as Philip could never abide. Philip 
has got ’em i’ t’ book, if he'll only look.” 

“Is he here again ? ” said Philip ; “I didn’t see him. 
What brings him here, where he’s noan wanted ? ” 

“ T’ shop were throng wi’ folk,” said Hester, “ and he 
knew his own mind about the handkercher, and didn’t tarry 
long. Just as he was leaving, his eye caught on t’ ribbon, 
and he came back for it. It were when yo' were serving 
Mary Darby, and there was a vast o’ folk about yo’.” 

“ I wish I’d seen him,” said Coulson. “ I’d ha’ gi’en him 
a word and a look he’d not ha’ forgotten in a hurry.” 

“ Why, what’s up ? ” said Philip, surprised at William’s 
unusual manner, and, at the same time, rather gratified to 
find a reflection of his own feehngs about Kinraid. Coulson ’s 
face was pale with anger; but for a moment or two he 
seemed uncertain whether he would reply or not. 

“ Up ! ” said he at length. “It’s just this : he came 
after my sister for better nor two year ; and a better lass — 
no, nor a prettier i’ my eyes — niver broke bread. And then 
my master saw another girl, that he liked better ” — William 
almost choked in his endeavour to keep down all appearance 
of violent anger, and then went on, “ and that he played t’ 
same game wi’, as I’ve heerd tell.” 

“ And how did thy sister take it ? ” asked Philip eagerly. 

“ She died in a six-month,” said William ; she forgived 
him, but it’s beyond me. I thought it were him, when I 
heerd of t’ work about Darley ; Kinraid — and coming fra’ 
Newcassel, where Annie lived ’prentice — and I made inquiry, 
and it were t’ same man. But I’ll say no more about him, 
for it stirs t’ old Adam more nor I like, or is fitting.” 

Out of respect to him, Philip asked no more questions, 
although there were many things that he fain would have 
known. Both Coulson and he went silently and grimly 
through the remainder of their day’s work. Independently of 
any personal interest which either, or both, of them had, or 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

might have, in Kinraid’s being a light o’ love, this fault of his 
was one with which the two grave, sedate young men had 
no sympathy. Their hearts were true and constant, what- 
ever else might be their failings ; and it is no new thing to 
“ damn the faults we have no mind to.” Philip wished that 
it was not so late, or that very evening he would have gone 
to keep guard over Sylvia in her mother’s absence — nay, 
perhaps he might have seen reason to give her a warning of 
some kind. But, if he had done so, it would have been 
locking the stable-door after the steed was stolen. Kinraid 
had turned his steps towards Haytersbank Farm as soon as 
ever he had completed his purchases. He had only come 
that afternoon to Monkshaven, and for the sole purpose of 
seeing Sylvia once more, before he went to fulfil his engage- 
ment as specksioneer in the Urania, a whaling-vessel that 
was to sail from North Shields on Thursday morning ; and 
this was Monday. 

Sylvia sat in the house-place, her back to the long low 
window, in order to have all the light the afternoon hour 
afforded for her work. A basket of her father’s unmended 
stockings was on the little round table beside her, and one 
was on her left hand, which she supposed herself to be 
mending ; but from time to time she made long pauses, and 
looked in the fire ; and yet there was but little motion of 
flame or light in it out of which to conjure visions. It was 
“ redd up ” for the afternoon ; covered with a black mass of 
coal, over which the equally black kettle hung on the crook. 
In the back-kitchen Dolly Eeid, Sylvia’s assistant during 
her mother’s absence, chanted a lugubrious ditty, befitting 
her condition as a widow, while she cleaned tins, and cans, 
and milking-pails. Perhaps these bustling sounds prevented 
Sylvia from hearing approaching footsteps coming down 
the brow with swift advance ; at any rate, she started and 
suddenly stood up, as some one entered the open door. It 
was strange she should be so much startled, for the person 
who entered had been in her thoughts all during those long 
pauses. Charley Kinraid and the story of crazy Nancy had 

204 


The Engagement 

been the subjects for her dreams for many a day and many 
a night. Now he stood there, bright and handsome as ever, 
with just that much timidity in his face, that anxiety as to 
his welcome, which gave his accost an added charm, could 
she but have perceived it. But she was so afraid of herself, 
so unwilling to show what she felt, and how much she had 
been thinking of him in his absence, that her reception 
seemed cold and still. She did not come forward to meet 
him ; she went crimson to the very roots of her hair ; but 
that, in the waning light, he could not see ; and she shook 
so that she felt as if she could hardly stand ; but the tremor 
was not visible to him. She wondered if he remembered the 
kiss that had passed between them on New Year’s Eve — the 
words that had been spoken in the dairy on New Year’s 
Day; the tones, the looks, that had accompanied those 
words. But all she said was — 

“ I didn’t think to see yo’. I thought yo’d ha’ sailed.” 

“ I told yo’ I should come back, didn’t I ? ” said he, still 
standing, with his hat in his hand, waiting to be asked to sit 
down ; and she, in her bashfulness, forgetting to give the 
invitation, but, instead, pretending to be attentively mending 
the stocking she held. Neither could keep quiet and silent 
long. She felt his eyes were upon her, watching every 
motion, and grew more and more confused in her expression 
and behaviour. He was a little taken aback by the nature 
of his reception, and was not sure at first whether to take 
the great change in her manner, from what it had been when 
last he saw her, as a favourable symptom or otherwise. 
By-and-by, luckily for him, in some turn of her arm to reach 
the scissors on the table, she caught the edge of her work- 
basket, and down it fell. She stooped to pick up the scattered 
stockings and ball of worsted, and so did he ; and when they 
rose up, he had fast hold of her hand, and her face was 
turned away, half ready to cry. 

“What ails yo’ at me?” said he beseechingly. “Yo’ 
might ha’ forgotten me ; and yet I thought we made a 
bargain against forgetting each other.” No answer. He 

205 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

went on : “ Yo’ve never been out o’ my thoughts, Sylvia 
Eobson ; and I’m come back to Monkshaven for nought but 
to see you once and again, afore I go away to the northern 
seas. It’s not two hour sin’ I landed at Monkshaven, and 
I’ve been near neither kith nor kin as yet ; and, now I’m 
here, you won’t speak to me.” 

“ I don’t know what to say,” said she, in a low, almost 
inaudible tone. Then, hardening herself, and resolving to 
speak as if she did not understand his only half-expressed 
meaning, she lifted up her head, and, all but looking at him — 
while she wrenched her hand out of his — she said : “ Mother’s 
gone to Middleham for a visit, and feyther’s out i’ t’ plough- 
field wi’ Kester ; but he’ll be in afore long.” 

Charley did not speak for a minute or so. Then he said — 

“ Yo’re not so dull as to think I’m come all this way for 
t’ see either your father or your mother. I’ve a great respect 
for ’em both ; but I’d hardly ha’ come all this way for to see 
’em, and me bound to be back i’ Shields, if I walk every step 
of the way, by Wednesday night. It’s that yo’ won’t under- 
stand my meaning, Sylvia ; it’s not that yo’ don’t, or that yo’ 
can’t.” He made no effort to repossess himself of her hand. 
She was quite silent ; but in spite of herself she drew long 
hard breaths. “ I may go back to where I came from,” he 
went on. “I thought to go to sea wi’ a blessed hope to 
cheer me up, and a knowledge o’ some one as loved me as 
I’d left behind ; some one as loved me half as much as I did 
her ; for th’ measure o’ my love toward her is so great and 
mighty, I’d be content wi’ half as much from her, till I’d 
taught her to love me more. But, if she’s a cold heart and 
cannot care for a honest sailor, why, then, I’d best go back 
at once.” 

He made for the door. He must have been pretty sure 
from some sign or other, or he would never have left it to 
her womanly pride to give way, and for her to make the 
next advance. He had not taken two steps, when she turned 
quickly towards him and said something — the echo of which, 
rather than the words themselves, reached him. 

206 


The Engagement 

“ I didn’t know yo’ cared for me ; yo’ niver said so.” In 
an instant he was back at her side, his arm round her in 
spite of her short struggle, and his eager, passionate voice 
saying, “ Yo’ never knowed I loved you, Sylvia ? say -it again, 
and look i’ my face while yo’ say it, if yo’ can. Why, last 
winter I thought yo’d be such a woman, when yo’d come to 
be one, as my een had never looked upon ; and this year, ever 
sin’ I saw yo’ i’ the kitchen corner, sitting crouching behind 
my uncle, I as good as swore I’d have yo’ for wife, or never 
wed at all. And it was not long ere yo’ knowed it, for all 
yo’ were so coy, and now yo’ have the face — no, yo’ have not 
the face— come, my darling, what is it ? ” for she was crying ; 
and on his turning her wet, blushing face towards him, the 
better to look at it, she suddenly hid it in his breast. He 
lulled and soothed her in his arms, as if she had been a 
weeping child and he her mother ; and then they sat down 
on the settle together, and, when she was more composed, 
they began to talk. He asked her about her mother ; not 
sorry in his heart at Bell Eobson’s absence. He had intended, 
if necessary, to acknowledge his wishes and desires with 
regard to Sylvia to her parents ; but for various reasons he 
was not sorry that circumstances had given him the chance 
of seeing her alone, and obtaining her promise to marry him 
without being obliged to tell either her father or her mother 
at present. “ I ha’ spent my money pretty free,” he said, 
“ and I’ve ne’er a penny to the fore, and yo’r parents may 
look for something better for yo’, my pretty : but, when I 
come back fro’ this voyage, I shall stand a chance of having 
a share i’ th’ Urania, and maybe I shall be mate as well as 
specksioneer ; and I can get a matter of from seventy to 
ninety pounds a voyage, let adone th’ half-guineas for every 
whale I strike, and six shilling a gallon on th’ oil ; and, if I 
keep steady wi’ Forbes and Company, they’ll make me 
master i’ time, for I’ve had good schooling, and can work a 
ship as well as any man ; an’ I could leave yo’ wi’ yo’r parents, 
or take a cottage for yo’ nigh at hand ; but I would like to 
have something to the fore, and that I shall have, please 

207 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

God, when we come back i’ th’ autumn. I shall go to sea 
happy, now, thinking I’ve yo’r word. Yo’re not one to go 
back from it, I’m sure, else it’s a long time to leave such a 
pretty girl as yo’, and ne’er a chance of a letter reaching yo’, 
just to tell yo’ once again how I love yo’, and to bid yo’ not 
forget yo’r true love.” 

“ There’ll be no need o’ that,” murmured Sylvia. 

She was too dizzy with happiness to have attended 
much to his details of his worldly prospects; but at the 
sound of his tender words of love her eager heart was ready 
to listen. 

“ I don’t know,” said he, wanting to draw her out into 
more confession of her feelings. “ There’s many a one ready 
to come after yo’ ; and yo’r mother is not o’er captivated wi’ 
me ; and there’s yon tall fellow of a cousin as looks black at 
me ; for, if I’m not mista’en, he’s a notion of being sweet on 
yo’ hisself.” 

“ Not he,” said Sylvia, with some contempt in her tone. 
“ He’s so full o’ business and t’ shop, and o’ makin’ money, 
and gettin’ wealth.” 

“ Ay, ay ; but perhaps, when he gets a rich man, he’ll 
come and ask my Sylvia to be his wife ; and what will she 
say then ? ” 

“ He’ll niver come asking such a foolish question,” said 
she a little impatiently; “ he knows what answer he’d get, if 
he did.” 

Kinraid said, almost as if to himself, “ Yo’r mother 
favours him, though.” But she, weary of a subject she 
cared nothing about, and eager to identify herself with all 
his interests, asked him about his plans almost at the same 
time that he said these last words ; and they went on as 
lovers do, intermixing a great many tender expressions with 
a very little conversation relating to facts. 

Dolly Eeid came in, and went out softly, unheeded by 
them. But Sylvia’s listening ears caught her father’s voice, 
as he and Kester returned homewards from their day’s work 
in the plough-field ; and she started away, and fled upstairs 

208 


The Engagement 

in shy affright, leaving Charley to explain his presence in the 
solitary kitchen to her father. 

He came in, not seeing that any one was there at first ; 
for they had never thought of lighting a candle.- Kinraid 
stepped forward into the firelight ; his purpose of concealing 
what he had said to Sylvia quite melted away by the cordial 
welcome her father gave him, the instant that he recognised 
him. 

“ Bless thee, lad ! who’d ha’ thought o’ seein’ thee ? Why, 
if iver a thought on thee at all, it were half way to Davis’ 
Straits. To be sure, t’ winter’s been a dree season; and 
thou’rt, maybe, i’ t’ reet on ’t to mak’ a late start. Latest 
start as iver I made was ninth o’ March, an’ we struck 
thirteen whales that year.” 

“I have something to say to you,” said Charley, in a 
hesitating voice, so different to his usual hearty way, that 
Daniel gave him a keen look of attention before he began 
to speak. And, perhaps, the elder man was not unprepared 
for the communication that followed. At any rate, it was 
not unwelcome. He liked Kinraid, and had strong sympathy 
not merely with what he knew of the young sailor’s character, 
but with the life he led, and the business he followed. Eobson 
listened to all he said with approving nods and winks, till 
Charley had told him everything he had to say ; and then he 
turned and struck his broad horny palm into Kinraid’s as if 
concluding a bargain, while he expressed in words his hearty 
consent to their engagement. He wound up with a chuckle, 
as the thought struck him that this great piece of business, 
of disposing of their only child, had been concluded while 
his wife was away. 

“ A’m noane so sure as t’ missus ’ll like it,” said he ; “ tho’ 
whativer she’ll ha’ to say again’ it, mischief only knows. But 
she’s noane keen on matterimony ; though a have made her 
as good a man as there is in a’ t' Hidings. Anyhow, a’m 
master, and that she knows. But maybe, for t’ sake o’ peace 
an’ quietness — tho’ she’s niver a scolding tongue, that a will 
say for her — we’n best keep this matter to ourselves till thou 

209 P 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

comes inf port again. T’ lass upstairs ’ll like nought better 
than f curl hersel’ round a secret, and purr o’er it, just as f 
oud cat does o’er her blind kitten. But thou’ll be wanting 
to see f lass, a’ll be bound. An oud man like me isn’t as 
good company as a pretty lass.” Laughing a low rich laugh 
over bis own wit, Daniel went to the bottom of the stairs, 
and called, “ Sylvie, Sylvie ! come down, lass ! a’s reet ; come 
down ! ” 

For a time there was no answer. Then a door was 
unbolted, and Sylvia said — 

“ I can’t come down again. I’m noane cornin’ down 
again to-night.” 

Daniel laughed the more at this, especially when be 
caught Charley’s look of disappointment. 

“ Hearken how she’s bolted her door. She’ll noane come 
near us this neet. Eh! but she’s a stiff little ’un; she’s 
been our only one, and we’n mostly let her have her own 
way. But we’ll have a pipe and a glass ; and that, to my 
thinking, is as good company as iver a woman i’ Yorkshire.” 


CHAPTEE XVII 

EEJECTED WAENINGS 

The post arrived at Monkshaven three times in the week ; 
sometimes, indeed, there were not a dozen letters in the bag, 
which was brought thither by a man in a light mail-cart, who 
took the better part of a day to drive from York ; dropping 
private bags here and there on the moors, at some squire’s 
lodge or roadside inn. Of the number of letters that arrived 
in Monkshaven, the Fosters, shopkeepers and bankers, had 
the largest share. 

The morning succeeding the day on which Sylvia had 
engaged herself to Kinraid, the Fosters seemed unusually 

210 


Rejected Warnings 

anxious to obtain their letters. Several times Jeremiah came 
out of the parlour in which his brother John was sitting in 
expectant silence, and, passing through the shop, looked up 
and down the market-place in search of the old lame woman, 
who was charitably employed to deliver letters, and who 
must have been lamer than ever this morning, to judge from 
the lateness of her coming. Although none but the Fosters 
knew the cause of their impatience for their letters, yet there 
was such tacit sympathy between them and those whom 
they employed, that Hepburn, Coulson, and Hester were 
all much relieved when the old woman at length appeared 
with her basket of letters. 

One of these seemed of especial consequence to the good 
brothers. They each separately looked at the direction, and 
then at one another; and without a word they returned 
with it, unread, into the parlour, shutting the door, and 
drawing the green silk curtain close, the better to read it 
in privacy. 

Both Coulson and Philip felt that something unusual 
was going on, and were, perhaps, as full of consideration as 
to the possible contents of this London letter as of atten- 
tion to their more immediate business. But fortunately 
there was little doing in the shop. Philip, indeed, was quite 
idle when John Foster opened the parlour door and, half 
doubtfully, called him into the room. As the door of com- 
munication shut the three in, Coulson felt himself a little 
aggrieved. A minute ago, Philip and he were on a level of 
ignorance, from which the former was evidently going to be 
raised. But he soon returned to his usual state of acqui- 
escence in things as they were, which was partly con- 
stitutional, and partly the result of his Quaker training. 

It was apparently by John Foster’s wish that Philip had 
been summoned. Jeremiah, the less energetic and decided 
brother, was still discussing the propriety of the step, when 
Philip entered. 

“No need for haste, John; better not call the young 
man till we have further considered the matter.” 


2II 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

But the young man was there in presence ; and John’s 
will carried the day. 

It seemed from his account to Philip (explanatory of 
what he, in advance of his brother’s slower judgment, 
thought to be a necessary step), that the Fosters had for 
some time received anonymous letters, warning them, with 
distinct meaning, though in ambiguous terms, against a 
certain silk-manufacturer in Spitalfields, with whom they 
had had straightforward business-dealings for many years, 
but to whom they had latterly advanced money. The letters 
hinted at the utter insolvency of this manufacturer. They 
had urged their correspondent to give them his name in con- 
fidence, and this morning’s letter had brought it; but the 
name was totally unknown to them, though there seemed no 
reason to doubt the reality of either it or the address, the 
latter of which was given in full. Certain circumstances 
were mentioned regarding the transactions between the 
Fosters and this manufacturer, which could be known only 
to those who were in the confidence of one or the other; 
and to the Fosters the man was, as has been said, a perfect 
stranger. Probably, they would have been unwilling to 
incur the risk they had done on this manufacturer Dickin- 
son’s account, if it had not been that he belonged to the 
same denomination as themselves, and was publicly dis- 
tinguished for his excellent and philanthropic character ; but 
these letters were provocative of anxiety, especially since 
this morning’s post had brought out the writer’s full name, 
and various particulars showing his intimate knowledge of 
Dickinson’s affairs. 

After much perplexed consultation, John had hit upon 
the plan of sending Hepburn to London to make secret 
inquiries respecting the true character and commercial 
position of the man whose creditors, not a month ago, they 
had esteemed it an honour to be. 

Even now Jeremiah was ashamed of their want of con- 
fidence in one so good; he believed that the information 
they had received would all prove a mistake, founded on 

212 


Rejected Warnings 

erroneous grounds, if not a pure invention of an enemy ; and 
he had only been brought partially to consent to the sending 
of Hepburn, by his brother’s pledging himself that the real 
nature of Philip’s errand should be unknown to ahy human 
creature, save them three. 

As all this was being revealed to Philip, he sat apparently 
unmoved and simply attentive. In fact, he was giving all 
his mind to understanding the probabilities of the case, 
leaving his own feelings in the background till his intellect 
should have done its work. He said little ; but what he did 
say was to the point, and satisfied both brothers. John per- 
ceived that his messenger would exercise penetration and 
act with energy; while Jeremiah was soothed by Philip’s 
caution in not hastily admitting the probability of any charge 
against Dickinson, and in giving full weight to his previous 
good conduct and good character. 

Philip had the satisfaction of feeling himself employed 
on a mission which would call out his powers, and yet not 
exceed them. In his own mind he forestalled the instruc- 
tions of his masters, and was silently in advance of John 
Foster’s plans and arrangements, while he appeared to listen 
to all that was said with quiet business-like attention. 

It was settled that the next morning he was to make his 
way northwards to Hartlepool, whence he could easily pro- 
ceed either by land or sea to Newcastle, from which place 
smacks were constantly sailing to London. As to his per- 
sonal conduct and behaviour there, the brothers overwhelmed 
him with directions and advice; nor did they fail to draw 
out of the strong box in the thick wall of their counting- 
house a more than sufficient sum of money for all possible 
expenses. Philip had never had so much in his hands 
before, and hesitated to take it, saying it was more than he 
should require ; but they repeated, with fresh urgency, their 
warnings about the terrible high prices of London, till he 
could only resolve to keep a strict account, and bring back 
all that he did not expend, since nothing but his taking the 
whole sum would satisfy his employers. 

213 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

When he was once more behind the counter, he had 
leisure enough for consideration as far as Coulson could give 
it him. The latter was silent, brooding over the confidence 
which Philip had apparently received, but which was with- 
held from him. He did not yet know of the culminating 
point — of Philip’s proposed journey to London : that great 
city of London, which, from its very inaccessibility fifty years 
ago, loomed so magnificent through the mist of men’s 
imaginations. It is not to be denied that Philip felt exultant 
at the mere fact of “ going to London.” But then again, 
the thought of leaving Sylvia ; of going out of possible daily 
reach of her ; of not seeing her for a week — a fortnight ; 
nay, he might be away for a month — for no rash hurry was 
to mar his delicate negotiation — gnawed at his heart, and 
spoilt any enjoyment he might have anticipated from grati- 
fied curiosity, or even from the consciousness of being 
trusted by those whose trust and regard he valued. The 
sense of what he was leaving grew upon him the longer he 
thought on the subject ; he almost wished that he had told 
his masters earlier in the conversation of his unwillingness 
to leave Monkshaven for so long a time ; and then again he 
felt that the gratitude he owed them quite prohibited his 
declining any task they might impose, especially as they had 
more than once said that it would not do for them to appear 
in the affair, and yet that to no one else could they entrust 
so difficult and delicate a matter. Several times that day, 
as he perceived Coulson’s jealous sullenness, he thought in 
his heart that the consequence of the excessive confidence 
for which Coulson envied him was a burden from which he 
would be thankful to be relieved. 

As they all sat at tea in Alice Pose’s house-place, Philip 
announced his intended journey; a piece of intelligence he 
had not communicated earlier to Coulson, because he had 
rather dreaded the increase of dissatisfaction it was sure to 
produce, and of which he knew the expression would be 
restrained by the presence of Alice Rose and her daughter. 

“ To Lunnon ! ” exclaimed Ahce. 

214 


Rejected Warnings 

Hester said nothing. 

“ Well ! some folks has the luck ! ” said Coulson. 

“ Luck ! ” said Alice, turning sharp round on him. 
“ Niver let me hear such a vain word out o’ thy mouth, 
laddie, again. It’s the Lord’s doing, and ‘ luck’s ’ the devil’s 
way o’ putting it. Maybe it’s to try Philip he’s sent there ; 
happen it may be a fiery furnace to him ; for I’ve heerd tell 
it’s full o’ temptations, and he may fall into sin — and then 
where’d be the ‘ luck ' on it ? But why art ta going ? and 
the morning, say’st thou? Why, thy best shirt is in t’ 
suds, and no time for t’ starch and iron it. Whatten’s the 
great haste as should take thee to Lunnon wi'out thy ruffled 
shirt ? ” 

“ It’s none o’ my doing,” said Philip ; “ there’s business 
to be done, and John Foster says I’m to do it ; and I’m to 
start to-morrow.” 

“I’ll not turn thee out wi’out thy ruffled shirt, if I sit up 
a’ neet,” said Alice resolutely. 

“ Niver fret thyself, mother, about t’ shirt,” said Philip. 
“ If I need a shirt, London’s not what I take it for, if I can’t 
buy mysel’ one ready-made.” 

“ Hearken to him ! ” said Alice. “ He speaks as if buying 
o’ ready-made shirts were nought to him, and he wi’ a good 
half-dozen as I made mysel’. Eh, lad ! but, if that’s the 
frame o’ mind thou’rt in, Lunnon is like for to be a sore 
place o’ temptation. There’s pitfalls for men, and traps for 
money at ivery turn, as I’ve heerd say. It would ha’ been 
better if John Foster had sent an older man on his business, 
whativer it be.” 

“ They seem to make a deal o’ Philip all on a sudden,” 
said Coulson. “ He’s sent for, and talked to i’ privacy, 
while Hester and me is left i’ t’ shop for t’ bear t’ brunt o’ 
t’ serving.” 

“Philip knows,” said Hester, and then, somehow, her 
voice failed her, and she stopped. 

Philip paid no attention to this half-uttered sentence ; he 
was eager to tell Coulson, as far as he could do so without 

215 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

betraying his master’s secret, how many drawbacks there 
were to his proposed journey, in the responsibility which it 
involved, and his unwillingness to leave Monkshaven. He 
said — 

“ Ooulson, I’d give a deal it were thou that were going, 
and not me. At least, there is many a time I’d give a deal. 
I’ll not deny but at other times I’m pleased at the thought 
on’t. But, if I could, I’d change places wi’ thee at this 
moment.” 

“It’s fine talking,” said Coulson, half molhfied, and yet 
not oaring to show it. “I make no doubt it were an even 
chance betwixt us two at first, which on us was to go ; but 
somehow thou got the start, and thou’st stuck to it ; till it’s 
too late for aught but to say thou’s sorry.” 

“ Nay, William,” said Philip, rising, “ it’s an ill look-out 
for the future, if thee and me is to quarrel, like two silly 
wenches, o’er each bit of pleasure, or what thou fancies to be 
pleasure, as falls in t’ way of either on us. I’ve said truth 
to thee, and played thee fair, and I’ve got to go to Hayters- 
bank, for to wish ’em good-bye ; so I’ll not stay longer here 
to be misdoubted by thee.’* 

He took his cap and was gone, not heeding Alice’s shrill 
inquiry as to his clothes and his ruffled shirt. Coulson sat 
still, penitent and ashamed; at length, he stole a look at 
Hester. She was playing with her teaspoon, but he could 
see that she was choking down her tears; he could not 
choose but force her to speak with an ill-timed question. 

“ What’s to do, Hester? ” said he. 

She lifted up those eyes, usually so soft and serene ; now 
they were full of the light of indignation shining through 
tears. 

“ To do I ” she said ; “ Coulson, I’d thought better of thee, 
going and doubting and envying Philip, as niver did thee an 
ill turn, or said an ill word, or thought an ill thought by 
thee ; and sending him away out o’ t’ house this last night 
of aU, maybe, wi’ thy envyings and jealousy.” 

She hastily got up and left the room. Alice was away, 
216 


Rejected Warnings 

looking up Philip’s things for his journey. Coulson remained 
alone, feeling like a guilty child, but dismayed by Hester’s 
words, even more than by his own regret at what he had said. 

Philip walked rapidly up the hill-road towards Hayters- 
bank. He was chafed and excited by Coulson’s words, and 
the events of the day. He had meant to shape his life, and 
now it was, as it were, being shaped for him ; and yet he was 
reproached for the course it was taking, as much as though 
he were an active agent ; accused of taking advantage over 
Coulson, his intimate companion foryears— he who esteemed 
himself above taking an unfair advantage over any man ! 
His feeling on the subject was akin to that of Hazael, “ Is 
thy servant a dog that he should do this thing ? ” 

His feelings, disturbed on this one point, shook his 
judgment off its balance on another. The resolution he had 
deliberately formed of not speaking to Sylvia on the subject 
of his love till he could announce to her parents the fact of 
his succession to Fosters’ business, and till he had patiently, 
with long-continuing and deep affection, worked his way 
into her regard, was set aside during the present walk. He 
would speak to her of his passionate attachment, before he 
left, for an uncertain length of time and the certain distance 
of London. And all the modification on this point which 
his judgment could obtain from his impetuous and excited 
heart was, that he would watch her words and manner well, 
when he announced his approaching absence ; and, if in them 
he read the slightest token of tender regretful feeling, he 
would pour out his love at her feet, not even urging the 
young girl to make any return, or to express the feelings of 
which he hoped the germ was already budding in her. He 
would be patient with her ; he could not be patient himself. 
His heart beating, his busy mind rehearsing the probable 
coming scene, he turned into the field path that led to 
Haytersbank. Coming along it, and so meeting him, 
advanced Daniel Eobson, in earnest talk with Charley 
Kinraid. Kinraid, then, had been at the farm ; Kinraid 
had been seeing Sylvia, her mother away. The thought 

217 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

of poor dead Annie Coulson flashed into Philip’s mind. 
Could he be playing the same game with Sylvia? Philip 
set his teeth and tightened his lips at the thought of it. 
They had stopped talking; they had seen him already, or 
his impulse would have been to dodge behind the wall and 
avoid them; even though one of his purposes in going to 
Haytersbank had been to bid his uncle farewell. 

Kinraid took him by surprise from the hearty greeting he 
gave him, and which Philip would fain have avoided. But 
the specksioneer was full of kindliness towards all the world, 
especially towards all Sylvia’s friends, and, convinced of her 
great love towards himself, had forgotten any previous 
jealouey of Philip. Secure and exultant, his broad, hand- 
some, weather-bronzed face was as great a contrast to 
Philip’s long, thoughtful, sallow countenance, as his frank 
manner was to the other’s cold reserve. It was some 
minutes before Hepburn could bring himself to tell the 
great event that was about to befall him before this third 
person, whom he considered as an intrusive stranger. But 
as Kinraid seemed to have no idea of going on, and as there 
really was no reason why he and all the world should not 
know of Philip’s intentions, he told his uncle that he was 
bound for London the next day on business connected with 
the Fosters. 

Daniel was deeply struck with the fact that he was 
talking to a man setting off for London at a day’s notice. 

“ Thou’ll niver tell me this hasn’t been brewin’ longer 
nor twelve hours; thou’s a sly close chap, and we hannot 
seen thee this se’nnight ; thou’ll ha’ been thinkin’ on this, and 
cogitating it, maybe, a’ that time.” 

“ Nay,” said Philip, “ I knew nought about it last night ; 
it’s none o’ my doing, going, for I’d liefer ha’ stayed where 
I am.” 

“ Yo’ll like it, when once yo’re there,” said Kinraid, with 
a travelled air of superiority, as Philip fancied. 

“ No, I sha’nt,” he replied shortly. “ Liking has nought 
to do with it.” 


218 


Rejected Warnings 

“ An’ yo’ knew nought about it last neet,” continued 
Daniel musingly. “ Well, life’s soon o’er ; else, when I were 
a young fellow, folks made their wills afore goin’ to Lunnon.” 

“ Yet I’ll be bound to say yo’ niver made a will* before 
going to sea,” said Philip, half -smiling. 

“ Na, na ; but that’s quite another mak’ o’ thing ; goin’ 
to sea comes natteral to a man, but goin’ to Lunnon — I were 
once there, and were near deafened wi’ t’ throng and t’ sound. 
I were but two hours i’ t’ place, though our ship lay a fortneet 
off Gravesend.” 

Kinraid now seemed in a hurry; but Philip was stung 
with curiosity to ascertain his movements, and suddenly 
addressed him : — 

“ I heard yo’ were i’ these parts. Are you for staying 
here long ? ” 

There was a certain abruptness in Philip’s tone, if not in 
his words, which made Kinraid look in his face with surprise, 
and answer with equal curtness. 

“ I’m off i’ th’ morning ; and sail for the north seas day 
after.” 

He turned away, and began to whistle, as if he did not 
wish for any further conversation with his interrogator. 
Phihp, indeed, had nothing more to say to him : he had 
learned all he wanted to know. 

“ I’d like to bid good-bye to Sylvie. Is she at home ? ” 
he asked of her father. 

“ A’m thinking thou’ll not find her. She’ll be off to 
Yesterbarrow, t’ see if she’d get a settin’ o’ their eggs ; her 
grey speckled hen is cluckin’, and nought ’ll serve our Sylvia 
but their eggs to set her upon. But, for a’ that, she mayn’t 
be gone yet. Best go on and see for thysel’.” 

So they parted; but Philip had not gone many steps 
before his uncle called him back, Kinraid slowly loitering 
on meanwhile. Bobson was fumbling among some dirty 
papers he had in an old leather case, which he had produced 
out of his pocket. 

“ Fact is, Philip, t’ pleugh’s in a bad way, gearin’ and a’, 
219 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

an* folk is talkin’ on a new kind o’ mak’; and if thou’s 
bound for York ” 

“I’m not going by York; I’m going by a Newcastle 
smack.” 

“Newcassel — Newcassel — it’s pretty much t’ same. 
Here, lad, thou can read print easy; it’s a bit as was cut 
out on a papper ; there’s Newcassel, and York, and Durham, 
and a vast more towns named, wheere folk can learn a’ 
about t’ new mak’ o’ plough.” 

“ I see,” said Philip ; “ ‘ Eobinson, Side, Newcastle, can 
give all requisite information.’ ” 

“ Ay, ay,” said Eobson ; “ thou’st hit t’ marrow on t’ 
matter. Now, if thou’rt i’ Newcassel, thou can learn all 
about it ; thou’rt little better nor a woman, for sure, bein’ 
mainly acquaint wi’ ribbons, but they’ll tell thee — they’ll tell 
thee, lad ; and write down what they sayn, and what’s to be 
t’ price, and look sharp as to what kind o’ folk they are as 
sells ’em, an’ write and let me know. Thou’ll be i’ Newcassel 
to-morrow, maybe ? Well, then. I’ll reckon to hear fro’ thee 
in a week, or, mayhap, less, — for t’ land is backward, and I’d 
like to know about t’ ploughs. I’d a month’s mind to write 
to Brunton, as married Molly Corney ; but writin’ is more i’ 
thy way an’ t’ parson’s nor mine ; and, if thou sells ribbons, 
Brunton sells cheese, and that’s no better.” 

Philip promised to do his best, and to write word to 
Eobson, who, satisfied with his willingness to undertake the 
commission, bade him go on and see if he could not find the 
lass. Her father was right in saying that she might not 
have set out for Yesterbarrow. She had talked about it to 
Kinraid and her father, in order to cover her regret at her 
lover’s accompanying her father to see some new kind of 
harpoon about which the latter had spoken. But as soon as 
they had left the house, and she had covertly watched them 
up the brow in the field, she sate down to meditate and 
dream about her great happiness in being beloved by her 
hero, Charley Kinraid. No gloomy dread of his long 
summer’s absence, no fear of the cold, glittering icebergs, 

220 


Rejected Warnings 

bearing mercilessly down on the Urania ^ no shuddering 
anticipation of the dark waves of evil import, crossed her 
mind. He loved her, and that was enough. Her eyes 
looked, trance-like, into a dim, glorious future of life; her 
lips, still warm and reddened by his kiss, were just parted in 
a happy smile, when she was startled by the sound of an 
approaching footstep — a footstep quite familiar enough for 
her to recognise it, and which was unwelcome now, as 
disturbing her in the one blessed subject of thought in which 
alone she cared to indulge. 

“Well, Philip ! an’ what brings yo' here ? ’’ was her 
rather ungracious greeting. 

“ Why, Sylvie, are yo’ sorry to see me ? ” asked Philip 
reproachfully. But she turned it off with assumed lightness. 

“ Oh, yes,” said she. “ I’ve been wanting yo’ this week 
past wi’ t’ match to my blue ribbon yo’ said yo’d get and 
bring me next time yo’ came.” 

“ I’ve forgotten it, Sylvie. It’s clean gone out of my 
mind,” said Philip with true regret. “ But I’ve had a deal 
to think on,” he continued penitently, as if anxious to be 
forgiven. 

Sylvia did not want his penitence, did not care for her 
ribbon, was troubled by his earnestness of manner — but he 
knew nothing of all that ; he only knew that she whom he 
loved had asked him to do something for her, and he had 
neglected it ; so, anxious to be excused and forgiven, he went 
on with the apology she cared not to hear. 

If she had been less occupied with her own affairs, less 
engrossed with deep feeling, she would have reproached him, 
if only in jest, for his carelessness. As it was, she scarcely 
took in the sense of his words. 

“ You see, Sylvie, I’ve had a deal to think on ; before long 
I intend telling yo’ all about it ; just now I’m not free to do 
it. And when a man’s mind is full o’ business, most 
particular when it’s other folk’s as is trusted to him, he 
seems to lose count on the very things he’d most care for at 
another time.” He paused a httle. 

221 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Sylvia’s galloping thoughts were pulled suddenly up by 
his silence ; she felt that he wanted her to say something, 
but she could think of nothing besides an ambiguous — 

“ Well ? ” 

“ And I’m off to London i’ t’ morning,” added he a little 
wistfully, almost as if beseeching her to show or express 
some sorrow at a journey, the very destination of which 
showed that he would be absent for some time. 

“ To Lunnon ! ” said she with some surprise. “ Yo’re 
niver thinking o’ going to live theere, for sure ! ” 

Surprise, and curiosity, and wonder ; nothing more, as 
Philip’s instinct told him. But he reasoned that first correct 
impression away with ingenious sophistry. 

“Not to live there ; only to stay for some time. I shall 
be back, I reckon, in a month or so.” 

“ Oh ! that’s nought of a going-away,” said she rather 
petulantly. “ Them as goes to t’ Greenland seas has to bide 
away for six months and more ; ” and she sighed. 

Suddenly a light shone down into Philip’s mind. His 
voice was changed as he spoke next. 

“ I met that good-for-nothing chap, Kinraid, wi’ yo’r 
father just now. He’ll ha’ been here, Sylvie ? ” 

She stooped for something she had dropped, and came up 
red as a rose. 

“ To be sure ; what then ? ” And she eyed him defiantly, 
though in her heart she trembled, she knew not why. 

“ What then ? and yo’r mother away ! He’s no company 
for such as thee, at no time, Sylvie.” 

“ Feyther and me chooses our own company, without 
iver asking leave o’ yo’,” said Sylvie, hastily arranging the 
things in the little wooden work-box that was on the table, 
preparatory to putting it away. At the time, in his agitation, 
he saw, but did not affix any meaning to it, that the half of 
some silver coin was among the contents thus turned over 
before the box was locked. 

“ But thy mother wouldn’t like it, Sylvie ; he’s played 
false wi’ other lasses; he’ll be playing thee false some o’ 

222 


Rejected Warnings 

these days, if thou lets him come about thee. He went on 
wi’ Annie Coulson, William’s sister, till he broke her heart ; 
and sin’ then he’s been on wi’ others.” 

“ I dunnot believe a word on’t,” said Sylvia, standing up, 
all aflame. 

“ I niver telled a lie i’ my life,” said Philip, almost chok- 
ing with grief at her manner to him, and the regard for his 
rival which she betrayed. “ It were Willie Coulson as telled 
me, as solemn and serious as one man can speak to another ; 
and he said it weren’t the first nor' the last time as he had 
made his own game with young women.” 

“ And how dare yo’ come here to me wi’ yo’r backbiting 
tales ? ” said Sylvia, shivering all over with passion. 

Philip tried to keep calm, and to explain. 

“ It were yo’r own mother, Sylvia, as knowed yo’ had no 
brother, or any one to see after yo’ ; and yo’ so pretty — so 
pretty, Sylvia,” he continued, shaking his head, sadly, “ that 
men run after yo’ against their will, as one may say ; and 
yo’r mother made me watch o’er ye and see what company 
yo’ kept, and who was following after yo’, and to warn yo’, if 
need were.” 

“ My mother niver bade yo’ to come spying after me, and 
blaming me for seeing a lad as my feyther thinks weU on. 
An’ I don’t believe a word about Annie Coulson ; and I’m 
not going to suffer yo’ to come wi’ yo’r tales to me ; say ’em 
out to his face, and hear what he’ll say to yo’.” 

“ Sylvie, Sylvie,” cried poor Philip, as his offended 
cousin rushed past him, and upstairs to her little bedroom, 
where he heard the sound of the wooden bolt flying into its 
place. He could hear her feet pacing quickly about through 
the unceiled rafters.’ He sate still in despair, his head buried 
in his two hands. He sate till it grew dusk, dark ; the wood 
fire, not gathered together by careful hands, died out into 
grey ashes. Dolly Reid had done her work and gone home. 
There were but Philip and Sylvia in the house. He knew he 
ought to be going home, for he had much to do, and many 
arrangements to make. Yet it seemed as though he could 

223 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

not stir. At length he raised his stiffened body, and stood 
up, dizzy. Up the little wooden stairs he went, where he 
had never been before, to the small square landing, almost 
filled up with the great chest for oat-cake. He breathed 
hard for a minute, and then knocked at the door of Sylvia’s 
room. 

“ Sylvie : I’m going away ; say good-bye.” No answer. 
Not a sound heard. “ Sylvie ! ” (a little louder, and less 
hoarsely spoken). There was no reply. “ Sylvie ! I shall 
be a long time away ; perhaps I may niver come back at 
all ; ” here he bitterly thought of an unregarded death. 
“ Say good-bye ! ” No answer. He waited patiently. Can 
she be wearied out, and gone to sleep, he wondered. Yet 
once again — “ Good-bye, Sylvie, and God bless yo’ ! I’m 
sorry I vexed yo’.” 

No reply. 

With a heavy, heavy heart, he creaked down the stairs, 
felt for his cap, and left the house. 

“ She’s warned, any way,” thought he. Just at that 
moment the little casement window of Sylvia’s room was 
opened, and she said — 

“ Good-bye, Philip ! ” 

The window was shut again, as soon as the words were 
spoken. Philip knew the uselessness of remaining ; the need 
for his departure ; and yet he stood still for a little time like 
one entranced, as if his will had lost all power to compel 
him to leave the place. Those two words of hers, which 
two hours before would have been so far beneath his aspira- 
tions, had now power to re-light hope, to quench reproach or 
blame. 

“ She’s but a young lassie,” said he to himself ; “ an’ 
Kinraid has been playing wi’ her, as such as he can’t help 
doing, once they get among t’ women. An’ I came down 
sudden on her about Annie Coulson, and touched her pride. 
Maybe, too, it were ill-advised to tell her how her mother 
was feared for her. I couldn’t ha’ left the place to-morrow, 
if he’d been biding here ; but he’s off for half a year or so, 

224 


Eddy in Love’s Current 

and I’ll be home again as soon as iver I can. In half a year 
such as he forgets, if iver he’s thought serious about her ; 
but in a my lifetime, if I live to fourscore, I can niver 
forget. God bless her for saying, ‘ Good-bye, Philip.' ” He 
repeated the words aloud in fond mimicry of her tones : 
“ Good-bye, Philip.” 


CHAPTEE XVIII 

EDDY IN love’s CUBRENT 

The next morning shone bright and clear, if ever a March 
morning did. The beguiling month was coming in like a 
lamb, with whatever storms it might go raging out. It was 
long since Philip had tasted the freshness of the early air on 
the shore, or in the country, as his employment at the shop 
detained him in Monkshaven till the evening. And, as he 
turned down the quays (or staithes) on the north side of the 
river, towards the shore, and met the fresh sea-breeze blow- 
ing right in his face, it was impossible not to feel bright and 
elastic. With his knapsack slung over his shoulder, he was 
prepared for a good stretch towards Hartlepool, whence a 
coach would take him to Newcastle before night. For seven 
or eight miles the level sands were as short a road as the 
up and down land-ways, and far more agreeable. Philip 
walked on pretty briskly, unconsciously enjoying the sunny 
landscape before him ; the crisp curling waves rushing almost 
up to his feet, on his right hand, and then swishing back 
over the fine small pebbles into the great swelling sea. To 
his left were the cliffs rising one behind another, having deep 
gullies here and there between, with long green slopes upward 
from the land, and then sudden falls of brown and red 
soil or rock, deepening to a yet greater richness of colour at 
their base towards the blue ocean before him. The loud, 

225 Q 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

monotonous murmur of the advancing and receding waters 
lulled him into dreaminess ; the sunny look of everything 
tinged his' day-dreams with hope. So he trudged merrily over 
the first mile or so ; not an obstacle to his measured pace on 
the hard, level pavement ; not a creature to be seen since he 
had left the little gathering of bare-legged urchins dabbling 
in the sea-pools near Monkshaven. The cares of land were 
shut out by the glorious barrier of rocks before him. There 
were some great masses that had been detached by the action 
of the weather, and lay half embedded in the sand, draperied 
over by the heavy pendent olive-green seaweed. The waves 
were nearer at this point ; the advancing sea came up with a 
mighty distant length of roar ; here and there the smooth 
swell was lashed by the fret against unseen rocks into white 
breakers ; but otherwise the waves came up from the German 
Ocean upon that English shore with a long steady roll, that 
might have taken its first impetus far away, in the haunt of 
the sea-serpent on the coast of “ Norroway over the foam.” 
The air was soft as May ; right overhead the sky was blue, 
but it deadened into grey near the sea lines. Flocks of sea- 
gulls hovered about the edge of the waves, slowly rising and 
turning their white under-plumage to glimmer in the sun- 
light, as Philip approached. The whole scene was so peaceful, 
so soothing, that it dispelled the cares and fears (too well 
founded in fact) which had weighed down on his heart during 
the dark hours of the past night. 

There was Haytersbank gully opening down its green 
entrance among the warm brown bases of the cliffs. Below, 
in the sheltered brushwood, among the last year’s withered 
leaves, some primroses might be found. He half thought of 
gathering Sylvia a posy of them, and rushing up to the farm 
to make a little farewell peace-offering. But, on looking at 
his watch, he put all thoughts of such an action out of his 
head ; it was above an hour later than he had supposed, and 
he must make all haste on to Hartlepool. Just as he was 
approaching this gully, a man came dashing down, and ran 
out some way upon the sand with the very force of his 

226 


Eddy in Love’s Current 

descent ; then he turned to the left and took the direction 
of Hartlepool, a hundred yards or so in advance of Philip. 
He never stayed to look round him, but went swiftly and 
steadily on his way. By the peculiar lurch in his walk — by 
everything — Philip knew it was the specksioneer, Kinraid. 

Now the road up Haytersbank gully led to the farm, 
and nowhere else. Still, any one wishing to descend to the 
shore might do so by first going up to the Eobsons’ house, 
and skirting the walls till they came to the little slender 
path down to the shore. But by the farm, by the very house- 
door, they must of necessity pass. Philip slackened his pace, 
keeping under the shadow of the rock. By-and-by Kinraid, 
walking on the sunlit open sands, turned round and looked 
long and earnestly towards Haytersbank gully. Hepburn 
paused when he paused ; but, as intently as he looked at 
some object above, so intently did Hepburn look at him. 
No need to ascertain by sight towards whom his looks, his 
thoughts, were directed. He took off his hat and waved it, 
touching one part of it as if with particular meaning. When 
he turned away at last, Hepburn heaved a heavy sigh, and 
crept yet more into the cold dank shadow of the cliffs. 
Each step was now a heavy task, his sad heart tired and 
weary. After a while he climbed up a few feet, so as to 
mingle his form yet more completely with the stones and 
rocks around. Stumbling over the uneven and often jagged 
points, slipping on the seaweed, plunging into little pools of 
water left by the ebbing tide in some natural basins, he yet 
kept his eyes fixed as if in fascination on Kinraid, and made 
his way almost alongside of him. But the last hour had 
pinched Hepburn’s features into something of the wan 
haggardness they would wear, when he should first be lying 
still for ever. 

And now the two men were drawing near a creek, about 
eight miles from Monkshaven. The creek was formed by a 
beck (or small stream) that came flowing down from the 
moors, and took its way to the sea between the widening 
rocks. The melting of the snows and running of the flooded 

227 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

water-springs above made this beck in the early spring-time 
both deep and wide. Hepburn knew that here they both 
must take a path leading inland to a narrow foot-bridge, 
about a quarter of a mile up the stream ; indeed, from this 
point, owing to the jutting out of the rocks, the land-path 
was the shortest ; and this way lay by the water- side at an 
angle right below the cliff, to which Hepburn’s steps were 
leading him. He knew that on this long level field-path 
he might easily be seen by any one following — nay, if he 
followed any one at a short distance, for it was full of 
turnings ; and he resolved, late as he was, to sit down for 
a while, till Kinraid was far enough in advance for him to 
escape being seen. He came up to the last rock behind 
which he could be concealed ; seven or eight feet above the 
stream he stood, and looked cautiously for the specksioneer. 
Up by the rushing stream he looked ; then right below. 

“ It is God’s providence,” he murmured. “ It is God’s 
providence.” 

He crouched down where he had been standing, and 
covered his face with his hands. He tried to deafen as well 
as to blind himself, that he might neither hear nor see any- 
thing of the coming event of which he, an inhabitant of 
Monkshaven at that day, well understood the betokening 
signs. 

Kinraid had taken the larger angle of the sands, before 
turning up towards the bridge. He came along now, nearing 
the rocks. By this time he was sufficiently buoyant to 
whistle to himself. It steeled Philip’s heart to what was 
coming to hear his rival whistling “ Weel may the keel 
row,” so soon after parting with Sylvia. 

The instant Kinraid turned the corner of the cliff, the 
ambush was upon him. Four man-of-war’s men sprang on 
him and strove to pinion him. 

“ In the King’s name ! ” cried they, with rough, trium- 
phant jeers. 

Their boat was moored not a dozen yards above; they 
were sent by the tender of a frigate lying off Hartlepool for 

228 


Eddy in Love’s Current 

fresh water. The tender was at anchor just beyond the 
jutting rocks in face. 

They knew that fishermen were in the habit of going to 
and from their nets by the side of the creek ; but such a 
prize as this active, strong, and evidently superior, sailor 
was what they had not hoped for ; and their endeavours to 
secure him were in proportion to the value of the prize. 

Although taken by surprise, and attacked by so many, 
Kinraid did not lose his wits. He wrenched himself free, 
crying out loud : — 

“ Avast, I’m a protected whaler. I claim my protection. 
I’ve my papers to show ; I’m bonded specksioneer to the 
Urania whaler, Donkin captain. North Shields port.” 

As a protected whaler, the press-gang had, by the 17th 
section of Act 26 Geo. III., no legal right to seize him, unless 
he had failed to return to his ship by the 10th March follow- 
ing the date of his bond. But of what use were the papers 
he hastily dragged out of his breast — of what use were laws, 
in those days of slow intercourse, with such as were powerful 
enough to protect, and in the time of popular panic against 
a French invasion ? 

“ D — n your protection,” cried the leader of the press- 
gang ; “ come and serve his Majesty, that’s better than 
catching whales.” 

“ Is it, though ? ” said the specksioneer, with a motion of 
his hand, which the swift-eyed sailor opposed to him saw 
and interpreted rightly. 

“ Thou wilt, wilt thou ? Close with him. Jack ; and ’ware 
the cutlass.” 

In a minute his cutlass was forced from him, and it 
became a hand-to-hand struggle, of which, from the differ- 
ence in numbers, it was not difficult to foretell the result. 
Yet Kinraid made desperate efforts to free himself ; he 
wasted no breath in words, but fought, as the men said, “ like 
a very devil.” 

Hepburn heard loud pants of breath, great thuds, the dull 
struggle of limbs on the sand ; the growling curses of those 

229 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

who thought to have managed their affair more easily ; the 
sudden cry of some one wounded — not Kinraid he knew : 
Kinraid would have borne any pain in silence at such a 
moment ; another wrestling, swearing, infuriated strife, and 
then a strange silence. Hepburn sickened at the heart ; was 
then his rival dead ? had he left this bright world ? lost his 
life — his love ? For an instant Hepburn felt guilty of his 
death ; he said to himself, he had never wished him dead ; 
and yet in the struggle he had kept aloof, and now it might 
be too late for ever. Philip could not bear the suspense ; he 
looked stealthily round the corner of the rock behind which 
he had been hidden, and saw that they had overpowered 
Kinraid, and, too exhausted to speak, were binding him hand 
and foot to carry him to their boat. 

Kinraid lay as still as any hedgehog ; he rolled when they 
pushed him ; he suffered himself to be dragged without any 
resistance, any motion ; the strong colour brought into his 
face while fighting was gone now ; his countenance was livid 
pale ; his lips were tightly held together, as if it cost him 
more effort to be passive, wooden, and stiff in their hands 
than it had done to fight and struggle with all his might. 
His eyes seemed the only part about him that showed 
cognizance of what was going on. They were watchful, 
vivid, fierce, as those of a wild cat brought to bay, seeking in 
its desperate, quickened brain for some mode of escape not 
yet visible, and in all probability never to become visible to 
the hopeless creature in its supreme agony. 

Without a motion of his head, he was perceiving and 
taking in everything, while he lay bound at the bottom of 
the boat. A sailor sat by his side, who had been hurt by a 
blow from him. The man held his head in his hand, moan- 
ing ; but every now and then he revenged himself by a kick 
at the prostrate specksioneer, till even his comrades stopped 
their cursing and swearing at their prisoner for the trouble 
he had given them, to cry shame on their comrade. But 
Kinraid never spoke, nor shrank from the outstretched foot. 

One of his captors, with the successful insolence of 
230 


Eddy in Love’s Current 

victory, ventured to jeer him on the supposed reason for his 
vehement and hopeless resistance. 

He might have said yet more insolent things ; the kicks 
might have hit harder ; Kinraid did not hear or heed. His 
soul was beating itself against the bars of inflexible circum- 
stance ; reviewing in one terrible instant of time what had 
been, what might have been, what was. Yet while these 
thoughts thus stabbed him, he was still mechanically looking 
out for chances. He moved his head a little, so as to turn 
towards Haytersbank, where Sylvia must be quickly, if sadly, 
going about her simple daily work ; and then his quick eye 
caught Hepburn’s face, blanched with excitement rather than 
fear, watching eagerly from behind the rock, where he had sat 
breathless during the affray and the impressment of his rival. 

“ Come here, lad ! ” shouted the specksioneer as soon as 
he saw Philip, heaving and writhing his body the while with 
so much vigour that the sailors started away from the work 
they were engaged in about the boat, and held him down 
once more, as if afraid he should break the strong rope that 
held him like withes of green flax. But the bound man had 
no such notion in his head. His mighty wish was to call 
Hepburn near, that he might send some message by him to 
Sylvia. “ Come here, Hepburn,” he cried again, falling back 
this time so weak and exhausted that the man-of-war’s men 
became sympathetic. 

“ Come down, peeping Tom, and don’t be afeared,” they 
called out. 

“ I’m not afeared,” said Philip ; “ I’m no sailor for yo’ t’ 
impress me ; nor have yo’ any right to take that fellow : he’s 
a Greenland specksioneer, under protection, as I know and 
can testify.” 

“ Yo’ and yo’r testify go hang. Make haste, man, and 
hear what this gem’man, as was in a dirty, blubbery whale- 
ship, and is now in his Majesty’s service, has got to say ! I 
dare say. Jack,” went on the speaker, “ it’s some message to 
his sweetheart, asking her to come for to serve on board ship 
along with he, like Billy Taylor’s young woman. 

231 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Philip was coming towards them slowly, not from want 
of activity, but because he was undecided what he should be 
called upon to do or to say by the man whom he hated and 
dreaded, yet whom just now he could not help admiring. 

Kinraid groaned with impatience at seeing one, free to 
move with quick decision, so slow and dilatory. 

“’Come on then,” cried the sailors, “ or we’ll take you too 
on board, and run you up and down the main-mast a few 
times. Nothing like life aboard ship for quickening a land- 
lubber.” 

“ Yo’d better take him and leave me,” said Kinraid, 
grimly. “ I’ve been taught my lesson ; and seemingly he 
has his yet to learn.” 

“ His Majesty isn’t a schoolmaster to need scholars, but 
a jolly good captain to need men,” replied the leader of the 
gang, eyeing Philip nevertheless, and questioning within 
himself how far, with only two other available men, they 
durst venture on his capture as well as the specksioneei’’s. It 
might be done, he thought, even though there was this power- 
ful captive aboard, and the boat to manage too ; but, running 
his eye over Philip’s figure, he decided that the tall, stooping 
fellow was never cut out for a sailor, and that he should get 
small thanks if he captured him, to pay him for the possible 
risk of losing the other. Or else, the mere fact of being a 
landsman was of as little consequence to the press-gang, as 
the protecting papers which Kinraid had vainly showed. 

“ Yon fellow wouldn’t have been worth his grog this 
many a day, and be d — d to you,” said he, catching Hepburn 
by the shoulder, and giving him a push. Philip stumbled 
over something in this his forced run. He looked down; 
his foot had caught in Kinraid’s hat, which had dropped off 
in the previous struggle. In the band that went round the 
low crown, a ribbon was knotted ; a piece of that same 
ribbon which Philip had chosen out, with such tender hope, 
to give to Sylvia for the Corneys’ party on New Year’s Eve. 
He knew every delicate thread that make up the briar-rose 
pattern ; and a spasm of hatred towards Kinraid contracted 

232 


Eddy in Love’s Current 

his heart. He had been almost relenting into pity for the 
man captured before his eyes ; now he abhorred him. 

Kinraid did not speak for a minute or two. The sailors, 
who had begun to take him into favour, were all agog with 
curiosity to hear the message to his sweetheart, which they 
believed he was going to send. Hepburn’s perceptions, 
quickened with his vehement agitation of soul, were aware 
of this feeling of theirs ; and it increased his rage against 
Kinraid, who had exposed the idea of Sylvia to be the subject 
of ribald whispers. But the specksioneer cared little what 
others said or thought about the maiden, whom he yet saw 
before his closed eyelids as she stood watching him, from the 
Haytersbank gully, waving her hands, her handkerchief, all in 
one passionate farewell. 

“ What do yo’ want wi’ me ? ” asked Hepburn at last, in 
a gloomy tone. If he could have helped it, he would have 
kept silence till Kinraid spoke first ; but he could no longer 
endure the sailors’ nudges, and winks, and jests among 
themselves. 

“ Tell Sylvia,” said Kinraid — 

“ There’s a smart name for a sweetheart,” exclaimed one 
of the men ; but Kinraid went straight on — 

“ What yo’ve seen ; how I’ve been pressed by this cursed 
gang.” 

“ Civil words, messmate, if you please. Sylvia can’t 
abide cursing and swearing, I’m sure. We’re gentlemen 
serving his Majesty on board the Alcestis ; and this proper 
young fellow shall be helped on to more honour and glory 
than he’d ever get bobbing for whales. Tell Sylvia this, with 
my love : Jack Carter’s love, if she’s anxious about my name.” 

One of the sailors laughed at this rude humour ; another 
bade Carter hold his stupid tongue. Philip hated him in his 
heart. Kinraid hardly heard him. He was growing faint 
with the heavy blows he had received, the stunning fall he 
had met with, and the reaction from his dogged self-control 
at first. 

Philip did not speak nor move. 

233 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Tell her,” continued Kinraid, rousing himself for 
another effort, “what yo’ve seen. Tell her I’ll come back 
to her. Bid her not forget the great oath we took together 
this morning ; she’s as much my wife as if we’d gone to 
church ; — I’ll come back and marry her afore long.” 

Philip said something inarticulately. 

“ Hurra ! ” cried Carter, “ and I’ll be best man. Tell 
her, too, that I’ll have an eye on her sweetheart, and keep 
him from running after other girls.” 

“ Yo’ll have yo’r hands full, then,” muttered Philip, his 
passion boiling over at the thought of having been chosen 
out from among all men to convey such a message as 
Kinraid’ s to Sylvia. 

“ Make an end of yo’r d — d yarns, and be off,” said the 
man who had been hurt by Kinraid, and who had sate apart 
and silent till now. 

Philip turned away; Kinraid raised himself and cried 
after him — ■ 

“ Hepburn, Hepburn ! tell her ” what he added Philip 

could not hear, for the words were lost, before they reached 
him, in the outward noise of the regular splash of the oars 
and the rush of the wind down the gully, with which 
mingled the closer sound that filled his ears of his own 
hurrying blood surging up into his brain. He was conscious 
that he had said something in reply to Kinraid’s adjuration 
that he would deliver his message to Sylvia, at the very 
time when Carter had stung him into fresh anger by the 
allusion to the possibility of the specksioneer’s “ running 
after other girls ” ; for, for an instant, Hepburn had been 
touched by the contrast of circumstances. Kinraid an hour 
or two ago — Kinraid a banished man ; for, in those days, an 
impressed sailor might linger out years on some foreign 
station, far from those he loved, who all this time remained 
ignorant of his cruel fate. 

But Hepburn began to wonder what he himself had said 
— how much of a promise he had made to deliver those last 
passionate words of Kinraid’s. He could not recollect how 

234 


Eddy in Love’s Current 

much, how little, he had said; he knew he had spoken 
hoarsely and low, almost at the same time as Carter had 
uttered his loud joke. But he doubted if Kinraid had caught 
his words. 

And then the dread Inner Creature, who lurks in each of 
our hearts, arose and said, “It is as well : a promise given 
is a fetter to the giver. But a promise is not given when it 
has not been received.” 

At a sudden impulse, he turned again towards the shore 
when he had crossed the bridge, and almost ran towards 
the verge of the land. Then he threw himself down on the 
soft fine turf that grew on the margin of the cliffs over- 
hanging the sea, and commanding an extent of view towards 
the north. His face supported by his hands, he looked 
down upon the blue rippling ocean, flashing here and there, 
into the sunlight in long, glittering lines. The boat was 
still in the distance, making her swift, silent way with long 
regular bounds to the tender that lay in the offing. 

Hepburn felt insecure, as in a nightmare dream, so long 
as the boat did not reach her immediate destination. His 
contracted eyes could see four minute figures rowing with 
ceaseless motion, and a fifth sate at the helm. But he knew 
there was a sixth, unseen, lying, bound and helpless, at the 
bottom of the boat ; and his fancy kept expecting this man 
to start up and break his bonds, and overcome all the others, 
and return to the shore — free and triumphant. 

It was by no fault of Hepburn’s that the boat sped well 
away ; that she was now alongside the tender, dancing on 
the waves ; now emptied of her crew ; now hoisted up to 
her place. No fault of his ! and yet it took him some time 
before he could reason himself into the belief that his mad, 
feverish wishes, not an hour before — his wild prayer to be 
rid of his rival, as he himself had scrambled onward over 
the rocks alongside of Kinraid’ s path on the sands — had not 
compelled the event. 

“Anyhow,” thought he, as he rose up, “my prayer is 
granted. God be thanked ! ” 


235 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Once more he looked out towards the ship. She had 
spread her beautiful great sails, and was standing out to sea 
in the glittering path of the descending sun. 

He saw that he had been delayed on his road, and had 
lingered long. He shook his stiffened limbs, shouldered his 
knapsack, and prepared to walk on to Hartlepool as swiftly 
as he could. 


CHAPTEE XIX 

AN IMPORTANT MISSION 

Philip was too late for the coach he had hoped to go by ; but 
there was another that left at night, and which reached 
Newcastle in the forenoon, so that, by the loss of a night’s 
sleep, he might overtake his lost time. But, restless and 
miserable, he could not stop in Hartlepool longer than to get 
some hasty food at the inn from which the coach started. 
He acquainted himself with the names of the towns through 
which it would pass, and the inns at which it would stop, 
and left word that the coachman was to be on the look-out 
for him and pick him up at some one of these places. 

He was thoroughly worn out before this happened — too 
much tired to gain any sleep in the coach. When he reached 
Newcastle, he went to engage his passage in the next 
London-bound smack, and then directed his steps to Eobin- 
son’s, in the Side, to make all the inquiries he could think of 
respecting the plough his uncle wanted to know about. 

So it was pretty late in the afternoon, indeed almost 
evening, before he arrived at the small inn on the quay-side, 
where he intended to sleep. It was but a rough kind of 
place, frequented principally by sailors ; he had been recom- 
mended to it by Daniel Eobson, who had known it well in 
former days. The accommodation in it was, however, clean 

236 


An Important Mission 

and homely, and the people keeping it were respectable 
enough in their way. 

Still Hepburn was rather repelled by the appearance of 
the sailors who sate drinking in the bar, and he asked, in 
a low voice, if there was not another room. The woman 
stared in surprise, and only shook her head. Hepburn went 
to a separate table, away from the roaring fire, which on this 
cold March evening was the great attraction, and called for 
food and drink. Then, seeing that the other men were eyeing 
him with the sociable idea of speaking to him, he asked for 
pen and ink and paper, with the intention of defeating their 
purpose by pre-occupation on his part. But, when the paper 
came, the new pen, the unused thickened ink, he hesitated 
long before he began to write ; and at last he slowly put 
down the words — 

“ Dear and honoured IJncle,” — 

There was a pause ; his meal was brought and hastily 
swallowed. Even while he was eating it, he kept occasion- 
ally touching up the letters of these words. When he had 
drunk a glass of ale, he began again to write — fluently this 
time, for he was giving an account of the plough. Then 
came another long stop ; he was weighing in his own mind 
what he should say about Kinraid. Once he thought for a 
second of writing to Sylvia herself, and telling her — how 
much ? She might treasure up her lover’s words like grains 
of gold, while they were lighter than dust in their meaning 
to Philip’s mind : words which such as the specksioneer used 
as counters, to beguile and lead astray silly women. It was 
for him to prove his constancy by action ; and the chances 
of his giving such proof were infinitesimal in Philip’s estima- 
tion. But should the latter mention the bare fact of Kinraid’s 
impressment to Eobson ? That would have been the natural 
course of things, remembering that the last time Philip had 
seen either, they were in each other’s company. Twenty 
times he put his pen to the paper with the intention of 
relating briefly the event that had befallen Kinraid ; and 
as often he stopped, as though the first word would be 

237 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

irrevocable. While he thus sate, pen in hand, thinking 
himself wiser than conscience, and looking on, beyond the 
next step which she bade him take, into an indefinite future, 
he caught some fragments of the sailors’ talk at the other 
end of the room, which made him listen to their words. 
They were speaking of that very Kinraid, the thought of 
whom filled his own mind like an actual presence. In a 
rough, careless way they spoke of the specksioneer, with 
admiration enough for his powers as a sailor and harpooner ; 
and from that they passed on to jesting mention of his 
power amongst women, and one or two girls’ names were 
spoken of in connection with him. Hepburn silently added 
Annie Coulson and Sylvia Eobson to this fist ; and his cheeks 
turned paler as he did so. Long after they had done speak- 
ing about Kinraid, after they had paid their shot, and gone 
away, he sate in the same attitude, thinking bitter thoughts. 

The people of the house prepared for bed. Their silent 
guest took no heed of their mute signs. At length the land- 
lord spoke to him, and he started, gathered his wits together 
with an effort, and prepared to retire with the rest. But 
before he did so, he signed and directed the letter to his 
uncle, leaving it still open, however, in case some sudden 
feeling should prompt him to add a postscript. The landlord 
volunteered the information that the letter his guest had 
been writing must be posted early the next morning, if 
it was going south ; as the mails in that direction only left 
Newcastle every other day. 

All night long Hepburn wearied himself with passionate 
tossings, prompted by stinging recollection. Towards morn- 
ing he fell into a dead sound sleep. He was roused by a 
hasty knocking at the door. It was broad, full daylight ; 
he had overslept himself, and the smack was leaving by the 
early tide. He was even now summoned on board. He 
dressed, watered his letter, and rushed with it to the neigh- 
bouring post-ofl&ce ; and, without caring to touch the break- 
fast for which he paid, he embarked. Once on board, he 
experienced the relief which it always is to an undecided 

238 


An Important Mission 

man, and generally is, at first, to any one who has been 
paltering with duty, when circumstances decide for him. 
In the first case, it is pleasant to be relieved from the burden 
of decision ; in the second, the responsibility seems to be 
shifted on to impersonal events. 

And so Philip sailed out of the mouth of the Tyne on to 
the great open sea. It would be a week before the smack 
reached London, even if she pursued a tolerably straight 
course ; but she had to keep a sharp look-out after possible 
impressment of her crew ; and it was not until after many 
dodges and some adventures that, at the end of a fortnight 
from the time of his leaving Monkshaven, Philip found him- 
self safely housed in London, and ready to begin the delicate 
piece of work which was given him to do. 

He felt himself fully capable of unravelling each clue to 
information, and deciding on the value of the knowledge so 
gained. But, during the leisure of the voyage, he had wisely 
determined to communicate everything he learnt about Dick- 
inson, in short, every step he took in the matter, by letter to 
his employers. And thus his mind, both in and out of his 
lodgings, might have appeared to have been fuUy occupied 
with the concerns of others. 

But there were times when the miserable luxury of dwell- 
ing upon his own affairs was his — when he lay down in his 
bed till he fell into restless sleep — when the point to which 
his steps tended in his walks was ascertained. Then he 
gave himself up to memory, and regret which often deepened 
into despair, and but seldom was cheered by hope. 

He grew so impatient of the ignorance in which he was 
kept — for in those days of heavy postage any correspondence 
he might have had on mere Monkshaven intelligence was 
very limited — as to the affairs at Haytersbank, that he cut 
out an advertisement respecting some new kind of plough, 
from a newspaper that lay in the chop-house where he 
usually dined; and, rising early the next morning, he 
employed the time thus gained in going round to the shop 
where these new ploughs were sold. 

239 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

That night he wrote another letter to Daniel Eobson, with 
a long account of the merits of the implements he had that 
day seen. With a sick heart and a hesitating hand, he wound 
up with a message of regard to his aunt and to Sylvia : an 
expression of regard which he dared not make as warm as 
he wished, and which, consequently, fell below the usual 
mark attained by such messages, and would have appeared 
to any one who cared to think about it as cold and formal. 

When this letter was despatched, Hepburn began to 
wonder what he had hoped for in writing it. He knew that 
Daniel could write — or rather that he could make strange 
hieroglyphics, the meaning of which puzzled others and often 
himself ; but these pen-and-ink signs were seldom employed 
by Eobson, and never, so far as Philip knew, for the purpose 
of letter- writing. But still, he craved so for news of Sylvia — 
even for a sight of paper which she had seen, and perhaps 
touched — that he thought all his trouble about the plough 
(to say nothing of the one-and- twopence postage which he 
had prepaid, in order to make sure of his letter’s reception in 
the frugal household at Haytersbank) well lost for the mere 
chance of his uncle’s caring enough for the intelligence to 
write in reply, or even to get some friend to write an answer ; 
for in such case, perhaps, Philip might see her name men- 
tioned in some way, even though it was only that she sent 
her duty to him. 

But the post-office was dumb; no letter came from 
Daniel Eobson. Philip heard, it is true, from his employers 
pretty frequently on business ; and he felt sure they would 
have named it, if any ill had befallen his uncle’s family, for 
they knew of the relationship and of his intimacy there. 
They generally ended their formal letters with as formal a 
summary of Monkshaven news, but there was never a 
mention of the Eobsons ; and that of itself was well, but it 
did not soothe Philip’s impatient curiosity. He had never 
confided his attachment to his cousin to any one — it was not 
his way ; but he sometimes thought that, if Coulson had 
not taken his present appointment to a confidential piece of 

240 


An Important Mission 

employment so ill, he would have written to him and asked 
him to go up to Haytersbank Farm, and let him know how 
they all were. 

All this time, he was transacting the affair on which he 
had been sent, with great skill ; and, indeed, in several ways, 
he was quietly laying the foundation for enlarging the busi- 
ness in Monkshaven. Naturally grave and quiet, and slow 
to speak, he impressed those who saw him with the idea of 
greater age and experience than he really possessed. Indeed, 
those who encountered him in London thought he was 
absorbed in the business of money-making. Yet, before the 
time came when he could wind up affairs and return to 
Monkshaven, he would have given all he possessed for a 
letter from his uncle, telling him something about Sylvia. 
For he still hoped to hear from Eobson, although he knew 
that he hoped against reason. But we often convince our- 
selves by good argument that what we wish for need never 
have been expected ; and then, at the end of our reasoning, 
find that we might have saved ourselves the trouble, for 
that our wishes are untouched, and are as strong enemies to 
our peace of mind as ever. Hepburn’s baulked hope was 
the Mordecai sitting in Haman’s gate ; all his success in his 
errand to London, his well-doing in worldly affairs, was 
tasteless, and gave him no pleasure : because of this blank 
and void of all intelligence concerning Sylvia. 

And yet he came back with a letter from the Fosters 
in his pocket, curt, yet expressive of deep gratitude for his 
discreet services in London ; and at another time — in fact, if 
Philip’s life had been ordered differently to what it was — 
it might have given this man a not unworthy pleasure to 
remember that, without a penny of his own, simply by 
diligence, honesty, and faithful quick- sightedness as to the 
interests of his masters, he had risen to hold the promise 
of being their successor, and to be ranked by them as a 
trusted friend. 

As the Newcastle smack neared the shore on her voyage 
home, Hepburn looked wistfully out for the faint, grey outline 

241 R 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

of Monkshaven Priory against the sky, and the well-known 
cliffs ; as if the masses of inanimate stone could tell him any 
news of Sylvia. 

In the streets of Shields, just after landing, he encountered 
a neighbour of the Eobsons, and an acquaintance of his own. 
By this honest man he was welcomed, as a great traveller 
is welcomed on his return from a long voyage, with many 
hearty good shakes of the hand, and much repetition of kind 
wishes, and offers to treat him to drink. Yet, for some in- 
surmountable feeling, Philip avoided all mention of the 
family who were the principal bond between the honest 
farmer and himself. He did not know why, but he could 
not bear the shock of first hearing her name in the open 
street, or in the rough public-house. And thus he shrank 
from the intelligence he craved to hear. 

Thus he knew no more about the Eobsons when he 
returned to Monkshaven, than he had done on the day when 
he had last seen them ; and, of course, his first task there 
was to give a long mm wee account of all his London pro- 
ceedings to the two brothers Foster, who, considering that 
they had heard the result of everything by letter, seemed to 
take an insatiable interest in details. 

He could hardly tell why, but, even when released from 
the Fosters’ parlour, he was unwilling to go to Haytersbank 
Farm. It was late, it is true ; but on a May evening even 
country people keep up till eight or nine o’clock. Perhaps 
it was because Hepburn was still in his travel-stained 
dress, having gone straight to the shop on his arrival 
in Monkshaven. Perhaps it was because, if he went this 
night for the short half-hour intervening before bed-time, 
he would have no excuse for paying a longer visit on the 
following evening. At any rate, he proceeded straight to 
Alice Eose’s, as soon as he had finished his interview with 
his employers. 

Both Hester and Coulson had given him their welcome 
home in the shop, which they had, however, left an hour or 
two before him. 


242 


Loved and Lost 

Yet they gave him a fresh greeting, almost one in which 
surprise was blended, when he came to his lodgings. Even 
Alice seemed gratified by his spending this first evening with 
them, as if she had thought it might have been otherwise. 
Weary though he was, he exerted himself to talk and to 
relate what he had done and seen in London, as far as he 
could without breaking confidence with his employers. It 
was something to see the pleasure he gave to his auditors, 
although there were several mixed feelings in their minds to 
produce the expression of it which gratified him. Ooulson 
was sorry for his former ungenerous reception of the news 
that Philip was going to London ; Hester and her mother 
each secretly began to feel as if this evening was like more 
happy evenings of old, before the Eobsons came to Hayters- 
bank Farm ; and who knows what faint delicious hopes this 
resemblance may not have suggested ? 

While Philip, restless and excited, feeling that he could 
not sleep, was glad to pass away the waking hours that must 
intervene before to-morrow night, at times, he tried to make 
them talk of what had happened in Monkshaven during his 
absence. But all had gone on in an eventless manner, as far 
as he could gather ; if they knew of anything affecting the 
Eobsons, they avoided speaking of it to him ; and, indeed, 
how little hkely were they ever to have heard their names 
while he was away ! 


CHAPTEE XX 


LOVED AND LOST 

Philip walked towards the Eobsons’ farm hke a man in a 
dream, who has everything around him according to his 
wish, and yet is conscious of a secret, mysterious, inevitable 
drawback to his enjoyment. Hepburn did not care to think 

243 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

— would not realise what this drawback, which need not 
have been mysterious in his case, was. 

The May evening was glorious in light and shadow. The 
crimson sun warmed up the chilly northern air to a semblance 
of pleasant heat. The spring sights and sounds were all 
about; the lambs were bleating out their gentle weariness, 
before they sank to rest by the side of their mothers ; the 
linnets were chirping in every bush of golden gorse that 
grew out of the stone walls ; the lark was singing her good- 
night in the cloudless sky, before she dropped down to her 
nest in the tender green wheat : all spoke of brooding peace 
— but Philip’s heart was not at peace. 

Yet he was going to proclaim his good fortune. His 
masters had that day publicly announced that Coulson and 
he were to be their successors ; and he had now arrived at 
that longed-for point in his business, when he had resolved 
to speak openly of his love to Sylvia, and might openly strive 
to gain her love. But, alas 1 the fulfilment of that wish of 
his had lagged sadly behind. He was placed as far as he 
could, even in his most sanguine moments, have hoped to be 
as regarded business ; but Sylvia was as far from his attain- 
ment as ever — ^nay, farther. Still the great obstacle was 
removed in Kinraid’s impressment. Philip took upon himself 
to decide that, with such a man as the specksioneer, absence 
was equivalent to faithless forgetfulness. He thought that he 
had just grounds for this decision in the account he had heard 
of Kinraid’s behaviour to Annie Coulson, and to the other 
nameless young girl, her successor in his fickle heart, in the 
ribald talk of the sailors in the Newcastle public-house. It 
would be well for Sylvia if she could forget as quickly ; and, 
to promote this obhvion, the name of her lover should never 
be brought up, either in praise or blame. And Philip would 
be patient and enduring ; all the time watching over her, and 
labouring to win her reluctant love. 

There she was ! He saw her as he stood at the top of 
the little hill-path leading down to the Eobsons’ door. She 
was out of doors, in the garden, which, at some distance 

244 


Loved and Lost 

from the house, sloped up the hank on the opposite side of 
the gully ; much too far off to be spoken to — not too far off 
to be gazed at by eyes that caressed her every movement. 
How well Philip knew that garden ; placed long ago by some 
tenant of the farm on a southern slope ; walled in with rough 
moorland stones; planted with berry-bushes for use, and 
southernwood and sweetbriar for sweetness of smell. When 
the Eobsons had first come to Haytersbank, and Sylvia was 
scarcely more than a pretty child, how well he remembered 
helping her with the arrangement of this garden ; laying out 
his few spare pence in hen-and- chicken daisies at one time, 
in flower-seeds at another , again, in a rose-tree in a pot. 
He knew how his unaccustomed hands had laboured with 
the spade at forming a little primitive bridge over the beck 
in the hollow, before winter streams should make it too deep 
for fording ; how he had cut down branches of the mountain- 
ash and covered them over, yet decked with their scarlet 
berries, with sods of green turf, beyond which the brilliancy 
crept out ; but now it was months and years since he had 
been in that garden, which had lost its charm for Sylvia, as 
she found the bleak sea-winds came up and bHghted all 
endeavours at cultivating more than the most useful things — 
pot-herbs, marigolds, potatoes, onions, and such-like. Why 
did she tarry there now, standing quite motionless up by 
the highest bit of wall, looking over the sea, with her hand 
shading her eyes ? Quite motionless ; as if she were a stone 
statue. He began to wish she would move — would look at 
him — but any way that she would move, and not stand gazing 
thus over that great dreary sea. 

He went down the path with an impatient step, and 
entered the house-place. There sat his aunt spinning, and 
apparently as well as ever. He could hear his uncle talking 
to Kester in the neighbouring shippen ; all was well in the 
household. Why was Sylvia standing in the garden in that 
strange quiet way ? 

“ Why, lad ! thou’rt a sight for sair een ! ” said his aunt, 
as she stood up to welcome him back. “ An’ when didst ta 

245 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

come, eh ? — but thy uncle will be glad to see thee, and to 
hear thee talk about yon ploughs ; he’s thought a deal o’ thy 
letters. I’ll go call him in.” 

“Not yet,” said Phihp, stopping her in her progress 
towards the door. “He’s busy talking to Kester. I’m in 
no haste to be gone. I can stay a couple of hours. Sit 
down, and tell me how you are yoursel’ — and how iverything 
is. And I’ve a deal to tell you.” 

“ To be sure — to be sure. To think thou’s been in Lunnon 
sin’ I saw thee ! — well, to be sure ! There’s a vast o’ coming 
and going i’ this world. Thou’ll mind yon specksioneer lad, 
him as was cousin to t’ Corneys — Charley Kinraid ? ” 

Mind him ! As if he could forget him ! 

“ Well ! he’s dead and gone.” 

“ Dead ! Who told you ? I don’t understand, said 
Philip, in strange bewilderment. Could Kinraid have tried 
to escape after all, and been wounded, killed, in the attempt ? 
If not, how should they know he was dead ? Missing he 
might be ; though how this should be known was strange, as 
he was supposed to be sailing to the Greenland seas. But 
dead ! What did they mean ? At Philip’s worst moment of 
hatred, he had hardly dared to wish him dead. 

“ Dunnot yo’ mention it afore our Sylvia ; we niver speak 
on him to her, for she takes it a deal to heart, though I’m 
thinkin’ it were a good thing for her ; for he’d got a hold of 
her — he had on Bessy Corney, too, as her mother telled me ; 

. — not that I iver let on to them as Sylvia frets after him ; so 
keep a calm sough, my lad. It’s a girl’s fancy — just a kind 
o’ calf-love ; let it go by ; and it’s well for her he’s dead, 
though it’s hard to say so on a drowned man.” 

“ Drowned ! ” said Philip. “ How do yo’ know ? ” half 
hoping that the poor drenched, swollen body might have been 
found, and thus all questions and dilemmas solved. Kinraid 
might have struggled overboard with ropes or handcuffs on, 
and so have been drowned. 

“ Eh, lad I there’s no misdoubtin’ it. He were thought a 
deal on by t’ captain o’ t’ Urania ; and, when he niver come 

246 


Loved and Lost 

back on t’ day when she ought for to have sailed, he sent to 
Kinraid’s people at Cullercoats, and they sent to Brunton’s i’ 
Newcassel ; and they knew he’d been here. T’ captain put 
off sailing for two or three days, that he might ha’ that much 
law ; but, when he heard as Kinraid were not at Comeys’, 
but had left ’em a’ most on to a week, he went off to them 
Northern seas wi’ t’ next best specksioneer he could find. 
For there’s no use speaking ill on t’ dead; an’, though I 
couldn’t abear his coming for iver about t’ house, he were 
a rare good specksioneer, as I’ve been told.” 

“ But how do you know he was drowned ? ” said Philip, 
feeling guiltily disappointed at his aunt’s story. 

“ Why, lad ? I’m a’most ashamed to tell thee — I were 
sore put out mysel’ ; but Sylvia were so broken-hearted like, 
I couldn’t cast it up to her, as I should ha’ liked : th’ silly 
lass had gone and gi’en him a bit o’ ribbon, as many a one 
knowed, for it had been a vast noticed and admired that 
evenin’ at th’ Corneys’ — New Year’s Eve, I think it were — 
and t’ poor vain peacock had tied it on his hat, so that when 

t’ tide hist ! there’s Sylvie coming in at t’ back door ; 

never let on;” and in a forced made-up voice she inquired 
aloud, for hitherto she had been speaking almost in a 
whisper — 

“ And didst ta see King George an’ Queen Charlotte ? ” 

Philip could not answer — did not hear. His soul had 
gone out to meet Sylvia, who entered with quiet slowness, 
quite unlike her former self. Her face was wan and white ; 
her grey eyes seemed larger, and full of dumb tearless 
sorrow ; she came up to Philip, as if his being there touched 
her with no surprise, and gave him a gentle greeting, as if he 
were a famihar, indifferent person, whom she had seen but 
yesterday. Philip, who had recollected the quarrel they had 
had, and about Kinraid too, the very last time they had met, 
had expected some trace of this remembrance to linger in 
her looks and speech to him. But there was no such sign ; 
her great sorrow had wiped away aU anger, almost all 
memory. Her mother looked at her anxiously, and then 

247 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

said, in the same manner of forced cheerfulness which she 
had used before — 

“ Here’s Philip, lass, a’ full o’ Lunnon ; call thy father 
in, an’ we’ll hear a’ about t’ new-fangled ploughs. It’ll be 
rare an’ nice, a’ sitting together again.” 

Sylvia, silent and docile, went out to the shippen to obey 
her mother’s wish. Bell Eobson leant forward towards 
Philip, misinterpreting the expression on his face, which 
was guilt as much as sympathy, and checked the possible 
repentance which might have urged him on at that moment 
to tell all he knew, by saying, “ Lad ! it’s a’ for t’ best. He 
were noane good enough for her ; and I misdoubt me he 
were only playin’ wi’ her as he’d done by others. Let her 
a-be, let her a-be ; she’ll come round to be thankful.” 

Eobson bustled in with loud welcome ; all the louder and 
more talkative, because he, like his wife, assumed a cheerful 
manner before Sylvia. Yet he, unlike his wife, had many a 
secret regret over Kinraid’s fate. At first, while merely the 
fact of his disappearance was known, Daniel Eobson had hit 
on the truth, and had stuck to his opinion that the cursed 
press-gang were at the bottom of it. He had backed his 
words by many an oath — and all the more, because he had 
not a single reason to give that applied to the present occa- 
sion. No one on the lonely coast had remarked any sign of 
the presence of the men-of-war, or the tenders that accom- 
panied them, for the purpose of impressment on the king’s 
ships. At Shields, and at the mouth of the Tyne, where 
they lay in greedy wait, the owners of the Urania had caused 
strict search to be made for their skilled and protected speck- 
sioneer, but with no success. All this positive evidence in 
contradiction to Daniel Eobson’s opinion only made him 
cling to it the more, until the day when the hat was found 
on the shore, with Kinraid’s name written out large and fair 
in the inside, and the tell-tale bit of ribbon knotted in the 
band. Then Daniel, by a sudden revulsion, gave up every 
hope ; it never entered his mind that it could have fallen off 
by any accident. No ! now Kinraid was dead and drowned; 

248 


Loved and Lost 

and it was a bad job, and the sooner it could be forgotten 
the better for all parties ; and it was well no one knew how 
far it had gone with Sylvia, especially now since Bessy 
Comey was crying her eyes out, as if he had been engaged 
to her. So Daniel said nothing to his wife about the 
mischief that had gone on in her absence, and never spoke 
to Sylvia about the affair ; only he was more than usually 
tender to her in his rough way, and thought, morning, noon, 
and night, on what he could do to give her pleasure, and 
drive away all recollection of her ill-starred love. 

To-night he would have her sit by him, while Philip told 
his stories, or heavily answered questions put to him. Sylvia 
sat on a stool by her father’s knee, holding one of his hands 
in both of hers ; and presently she laid down her head upon 
them, and Philip saw her sad eyes looking into the flickering 
fire-light with long unwinking stare, showing that her 
thoughts were far distant. He could hardly go on with his 
tales of what he had seen, and what done, he was so full of 
pity for her. Yet, for all his pity, he had now resolved never 
to soothe her with the knowledge of what he knew, nor to 
deliver the message sent by her false lover. He felt like a 
mother withholding something injurious from the foolish 
wish of her plaining child. 

But he went away without breathing a word of his good 
fortune in business. The telling of such kind of good fortune 
seemed out of place this night, when the thought of death 
and the loss of friends seemed to brood over the household, 
and cast its shadow there, obscuring for the time all worldly 
things. 

And so the great piece of news came out in the ordinary 
course of gossip, told by some Monkshaven friend to Eobson 
the next market-day. For months Philip had been looking 
forward to the sensation which the intelligence would pro- 
duce in the farm household, as a preliminary to laying his 
good fortune at Sylvia’s feet. And they heard of it, and he 
away ; and all chance of his making use of it in the manner 
he had intended vanished for the present. 

249 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Daniel was always curious after other people’s affairs, 
and now was more than ever bent on collecting scraps of 
news which might possibly interest Sylvia, and rouse her out 
of the state of indifference as to everything into which she 
had fallen. Perhaps he thought that he had not acted 
altogether wisely in allowing her to engage herself to Kinraid, 
for he was a man apt to judge by results ; and, moreover, he 
had had so much reason to repent of the encouragement 
which he had given to the lover whose untimely end had so 
deeply affected his only child, that he was more unwilling 
than ever that his wife should know of the length to which 
the affair had gone during her absence. He even urged 
secrecy upon Sylvia as a personal favour; unwilling to 
encounter the silent blame which he openly affected to 
despise. 

“ We’ll noane fret thy mother by lettin’ on how oft he 
came and went. She’ll, maybe, be thinkin’ he were for 
speakin’ to thee, my poor lass ; an’ it would put her out a 
deal, for she’s a woman of a stern mind towards mattere- 
mony. And she’ll be noane so strong till summer- weather 
comes, and I’d be loth to give her aught to worrit hersel’ 
about. So thee and me ’ll keep our own counsel.” 

“ I wish mother had been here ; then she’d ha’ known all, 
without my telling her.” 

“ Cheer up, lass ; it’s better as it is. Thou’ll get o’er it 
sooner for havin’ no one to let on to. A myself am noane 
going to speak on’t again.” 

No more he did; but there was a strange tenderness in 
his tones when he spoke to her: a half-pathetic way of 
seeking after her, if by any chance she was absent for a 
minute from the places where he expected to find her; a 
consideration for her, about this time, in his way of bringing 
back trifling presents, or small pieces of news that he thought 
might interest her, which sank deep into her heart. 

“ And what dun yo’ think a’ t’ folks is talkin’ on i’ 
Monkshaven ? ” asked he, almost before he had taken off his 
coat, on the day when he had heard of Philip’s promotion in 

250 


Loved and Lost 

the world. “Why, missus, thy nephew, Philip Hepburn, 
has got his name up, i’ gold letters four inch long, o’er Fosters’ 
door! Him and Coulson has set up shop together, and 
Fosters is gone out 1 ” 

“ That’s t’ secret of his journey t’ Lunnon/’ said Bell, 
more gratified than she chose to show. 

“ Four inch long, if they’re theere at all ! I heerd on it at 
t’ Bay Horse first; but I thought yo’d niver be satisfied, 
’bout I seed it wi’ my own eyes. They do say as Gregory 
Jones, t’ plumber, got it done i’ York; for that nought else 
would satisfy old Jeremiah. It’ll be a matter o’ some 
hundreds a year i’ Philip’s pocket.” 

“ There’ll be Fosters i’ th’ background, as one niay say, 
to take t’ biggest share on t’ profits,” said Bell. 

“ Ay, ay ; that’s but as it should be ; for I reckon they’ll 
ha’ to find t’ brass the first, my lass ! ” said he, turning to 
Sylvia. “ A’m fain to tak’ thee in to t’ town next market 
day, just for thee t’ see ’t. A’ll buy thee a bonny ribbon for 
thy hair out o’ t’ cousin’s own shop.” 

Some thought of another ribbon, which had once tied 
up her hair, and afterwards been cut in twain, must have 
crossed Sylvia’s mind; for she answered, as if she shrank 
from her father’s words — 

“ I cannot go ; I’m noane wantin’ a ribbon ; I’m much 
obliged, father, a’ t’ same.” 

Her mother read her heart clearly, and suffered with her, 
but never spoke a word of sympathy. But she went on, 
rather more quickly than she would otherwise have done, to 
question her husband as to all he knew about this great rise 
of Philip’s. Once or twice, Sylvia joined in with languid 
curiosity ; but presently she became tired and went to bed. 
For a few moments after she left, her parents sate silent. 
Then Daniel, in a tone as if he were justifying his daughter, 
and comforting himself as well as his wife, observed that it 
was almost on for nine; the evenings were light so long 
now. Bell said nothing in reply, but gathered up her wool, 
and began to arrange the things for night. 

251 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

By-and-by, Daniel broke the silence by saying — 

“A thowt, at one time, as Philip had a fancy for our 
Sylvie.” 

For a minute or two Bell did not speak. Then, with 
deeper insight into her daughter’s heart than her husband, 
in spite of his greater knowledge of the events that had 
happened to affect it, she said — 

“ If thou’s thinking on a match between ’em, it ’ll be a 
long time afore th’ poor sad wench is fit t’ think on another 
man as sweetheart.” 

“ A said nought about sweethearts,” replied he, as if his 
wife had reproached him in some way. “ Women’s allays so 
full o’ sweethearts and matteremony. A only said as a’d 
thowt once as Philip had a fancy for our lass, and a think so 
still ; and he’ll be worth his two hunder a year afore long. 
But a niver said nought about sweethearts.” 


CHAPTEE XXI 

A EEJECTED SUITOR 

There were many domestic arrangements to be made in con- 
nection with the new commercial ones which affected Hepburn 
and Coulson. 

The Fosters, with something of the busy-bodiness which 
is apt to mingle itself with kindly patronage, had planned in 
their own minds that the Eose household should be removed 
altogether to the house belonging to the shop ; and that 
Alice, with the assistance of the capable servant, who, at 
present, managed all John’s domestic affairs, should continue 
as mistress of the house, with Philip and Coulson for her 
lodgers. 

But arrangements without her consent did not suit Alice 
at any time ; and she had very good reasons for declining to 

252 


A Rejected Suitor 

accede to this. She was not going to he uprooted at her 
time of life, she said ; nor would she consent to enter upon a 
future which might be so uncertain. Why, Hepburn and 
Coulson were both young men, she said, and they' were as 
likely to marry as not ; and then the bride would be sure to 
wish to live in the good old-fashioned house at the back of 
the shop. 

It was in vain she was told by every one concerned, that, 
in case of such an event, the first married partner should 
take a house of his own, leaving her in undisputed possession. 
She replied, with apparent truth, that both might wish to 
marry, and surely the wife of one ought to take possession of 
the house belonging to the business ; that she was not going 
to trust herself to the fancies of young men, who were 
always, the best of them, going and doing the very thing that 
was most foolish in the way of marriage ; of which state, in 
fact, she spoke with something of acrimonious contempt and 
dislike, as if young people always got mismatched, yet had 
not the sense to let older and wiser people choose for them. 

“ Thou’ll not have been understanding why Alice Eose 
spoke as she did this morning,” said Jeremiah Foster to 
Philip, on the afternoon succeeding the final discussion of 
this plan. “ She was a-thinking of her youth, I reckon, 
when she was a well-favoured young woman, and our John 
was full of the thought of marrying her. As he could not 
have her, he has lived a bachelor all his days. But if I am 
not a vast mistaken, all that he has will go to her and to 
Hester, for all that Hester is the child of another man. Thee 
and Coulson should have a try for Hester, Philip. I have 
told Coulson this day of Hester’s chances. I told him first, 
because he is my wife’s nephew ; but I tell thee now, Philip. 
It would be a good thing for the shop, if one of ye was 
married.” 

Philip reddened. Often as the idea of marriage had come 
into his mind, this was the first time it had been gravely 
suggested to him by another. But he replied quietly 
enough — 

253 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ I don’t think Hester Eose has any thought of matri- 
mony.” 

“ To be sure not ; it is for thee, or for William Coulson, 
to make her think. She, maybe, remembers enough of her 
mother’s life with her father to make her slow to think on 
such things. But it’s in her to think on matrimony ; it’s in 
all of us.” 

“ Alice’s husband was dead before I knew her,” said 
Philip, rather evading the main subject. 

“ It was a mercy when he were taken. A mercy to them 
who were left, I mean. Alice was a bonny young woman, 
with a smile for everybody, when he wed her — a smile for 
every one except our John, who never could do enough to 
try and win one from her. But no ! she would have none 
of him, but set her heart on Jack Eose, a sailor in a whale- 
ship. And so they were married at last, though all her own 
folks were against it. And he was a profligate sinner, and 
went after other women, and drank, and beat her. She 
turned as stiff and as grey as thou seest her now, within a 
year of Hester’s birth. I believe they’d have perished for 
want and cold many a time, if it had not been for John. If 
she ever guessed where the money came from, it must have 
hurt her pride above a bit, for she was always a proud woman. 
But mother’s love is stronger than pride.” 

Philip fell to thinking; a generation ago something of 
the same kind had been going on as that which he was now 
living through, quick with hopes and fears. A girl beloved 
by two — nay, those two so identical in occupation as he and 
Kinraid were — Eose identical even in character with what he 
knew of the specksioneer ; a girl choosing the wrong lover, 
and suffering and soured all her life in consequence of her 
youth’s mistake : was that to be Sylvia’s lot ? — or, rather, 
was she not saved from it by the event of the impressment, 
and by the course of silence he himself had resolved upon ? 
Then he went on to wonder if the lives of one generation 
were but a repetition of the lives of those who had gone before, 
with no variation but f^’om the internal cause that some had 

254 


A Rejected Suitor 

greater capacity for suffering than others. Would those 
very circumstances which made the interest of his life now, 
return, in due cycle, when he was dead and Sylvia was 
forgotten ? 

Perplexed thoughts of this and a similar kind kept 
returning into Philip’s mind, whenever he had leisure to give 
himself up to consideration of anything but the immediate 
throng of business. And, every time he dwelt on this com- 
plication and succession of similar events, he emerged from 
his reverie more and more satisfied with the course he had 
taken, in withholding from Sylvia all knowledge of her 
lover’s fate. 

It was settled at length that Philip was to remove to the 
house belonging to the shop, Coulson remaining with Alice and 
her daughter. But, in the course of the summer, Coulson 
told his partner that he had offered marriage to Hester on 
the previous day, and been refused. It was an awkward 
affair altogether, as he lived in their house, and was in daily 
companionship with Hester ; who, however, seemed to pre- 
serve her gentle calmness, with only a tinge more of reserve 
in her manner to Coulson. 

“ I wish yo’ could find out what she has again’ me, 
Philip,” said Coulson, about a fortnight after he had made 
the proposal. The poor young man thought that Hester’s 
composure of manner towards him, since the event, argued 
that he was not distasteful to her ; and, as he was now on 
very happy terms with Philip, he came constantly to him, as 
if the latter could interpret the meaning of all the little 
occurrences between him and his beloved. “I’m o’ right 
age, not two months betwixt us ! and there’s few in Monks- 
haven as would think on her wi’ better prospects than me ; 
and she knows my folks ; we’re kind o’ cousins, in fact ; and 
I’d be like a son to her mother ; and there’s noane i’ Monks- 
haven as can speak again’ my character. There’s nought 
between yo’ and her, is there, Philip ? ” 

“I ha’ telled thee, many a time, that she and me is 
like brother and sister. She’s no more thought on me nor 

355 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

I have for her. So be content wi’t, for I’se not tell thee 
again.” 

“ Don’t be vexed, Philip ; if thon knew what it was to be 
in love, thou’d be always fancying things, just as I am.” 

“I might be,” said Philip; “ but I dunnotthinki should 
be always talking about my fancies.” 

“ I wunnot talk any more after this once, if thou’ll just 
find out fra’ thysel’, as it were, what it is she has again me. 
I’d go to chapel for iver with her, if that’s what she wants. 
Just ask her, Philip.” 

“ It’s an awkward thing for me to be melHng wi’,” said 
Hepburn reluctantly. 

“ But thou said thee and she were like brother and sister ; 
and a brother would ask a sister, and niver think twice 
about it.” 

“ Well, well,” replied Philip, “ I’ll see what I can do ; 
but, lad, I dunnot think she’ll have thee. She doesn’t fancy 
thee, and fancy is three parts o’ love, if reason is t’ other 
fourth.” 

But somehow Philip could not begin on the subject with 
Hester. He did not know why, except that, as he said, “ it 
was so awkward.” But he really liked Coulson so much as 
to be anxious to do what the latter wished, although he was 
almost convinced that it would be of no use. So he watched 
his opportunity, and found Alice alone and at leisure one 
Sunday evening. 

She was sitting by the window, reading her Bible, when 
he went in. She gave him a curt welcome, hearty enough 
for her, for she was always chary in her expressions of 
pleasure or satisfaction. But she took off her horn spectacles 
and placed them in the book, to keep her place ; and then, 
turning more fully round on her chair, so as to face him, she 
said — 

“ Well, lad ! and how does it go on ? Though it’s not a 
day for t’ ask about worldly things ! But I niver see thee 
now but on Sabbath-day, and rarely then. Still, we munnot 
speak o’ such things on t’ Lord’s day. So thee mun just 

256 


A Rejected Suitor 

say how t* shop is doing, and then we’ll leave such vain 
talk.” 

“ T’ shop is doing main an’ well, thank ye, mother. 
But Coulson could tell yo’ o’ that any day.” 

“ I’d a deal rayther hear fra’ thee, Philip. Coulson doesn’t 
know how t’ manage his own business, let alone half the 
business as it took John and Jeremiah’s heads — ay, and tasked 
’em, too — to manage. I’ve no patience with Coulson.” 

“ Why ? he’s a decent young fellow as ever there is in 
Monkshaven.” 

“ He may be. He’s noane cut his wisdom-teeth yet. 
But, for that matter, there’s other folks as far fra’ sense as 
he is.” 

“Ay, and farther. Coulson mayn’t be so bright at all 
times as he might be ; but he’s a steady goer, and I’d back 
him again any chap o’ his age i’ Monkshaven.” 

“ I know who I’d sooner back in many a thing, Philip ! ” 
She said it with so much meaning that he could not fail 
to understand that he himself was meant, and he replied, 
ingenuously enough — 

“ If yo’ mean me, mother. I’ll noane deny that in a thing 
or two I may be more knowledgeable than Coulson. I’ve 
had a deal o’ time on my hands i’ my youth, and I’d good 
schooling as long as father lived.” 

“ Lad ! it’s not schooling, nor knowledge, nor book- 
learning as carries a man through t’ world. It’s mother-wit. 
And it’s noane scliooling, nor knowledge, nor book-learning 
as takes a young woman. It’s summat as cannot be put 
into words.” 

“ That’s just what I told Coulson ! ” said Philip quickly. 
“ He were sore put about, because Hester had gi’en him the 
bucket, and came to me about it.” 

“ And what did thou say ? ” asked Alice, her deep eyes 
gleaming at him, as if to read his face as well as his words. 
Philip, thinking he could now, in the neatest manner, do 
what Coulson had begged of him, went on — 

“ I told him I’d help him all as I could ” 

aS7 


s 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“Thou did, did thou? Well, well; there’s nought sa 
queer as folks, that a will say,” muttered Alice between her 
teeth. 

— “ But that fancy had three parts to do wi’ love,” con- 
tinued Philip, “ and it would be hard, maybe, to get a reason 
for her not fancying him. Yet I wish she’d think twice 
about it ; he’s so set upon having her, I think he’ll do himself 
a mischief wi’ fretting, if it goes on as it is.” 

“It’ll noane go on as it is,” said Alice with gloomy 
oracularness. 

“ How not? ” asked Philip. Then, receiving no answer, 
he went on : “ He loves her true, and he’s within a month 
or two of her age, and his character will bear handling on 
a’ sides ; and his share on t’ shop will be worth hundreds 
a year, afore long.” 

Another pause. Alice was trying to bring down her 
pride to say something, which she could not with all her 
efforts. 

“ Maybe yo’ll speak a word for him, mother,” said Philip, 
annoyed at her silence. 

“ I’ll do no such thing. Marriages are best made wi’out 
melhng. How do I know but what she likes some one 
better ? ” 

“ Our Hester’s not th’ lass to think on a young man, 
unless he’s been a-wooing on her. And yo’ know, mother, 
as well as I do — and Coulson does too — she’s niver given any 
one a chance to woo her ; living half £er time here, and 
t’other half in t’ shop, and niver speaking to no one by 
t’ way.” 

“ I wish thou wouldn’t come here troubling me on a 
Sabbath-day wi’ thy vanity and thy worldly talk. I’d liefer, 
by far, be i’ that world wheere there’s neither marrying nor 
giving in marriage, for it’s all a moithering mess here.” She 
turned to the closed Bible lying on the dresser, and opened 
it with a bang. While she was adjusting her spectacles on 
her nose, with hands trembhng with passion, she heard 
Philip say — 


258 


A Rejected Suitor 

“ I ask yo r pardon, I’m sure. I couldn’t well come any 
other day.” 

“ It’s a’ t’ same— I care not. But thou might as well tell 
truth. I’ll be bound thou’s been at Haytersbank Farin some 
day this week ? ” 

Philip reddened; in fact, he had forgotten how he had 
got to consider his frequent visits to the farm as a regular 
piece of occupation. He kept silence. 

Alice looked at him with a sharp intelligence that read 
his silence through. 

“ I thought so. Next time thou thinks to thyself, ‘ I’m 
more knowledgeable than Coulson,’ just remember Alice 
Bose’s words, and they are these : — If Coulson’s too thick- 
sighted to see through a board, thou’rt too blind to see 
through a window. As for cornin’ and speakin’ up for 
Coulson, why, he’ll be married to some one else, afore t’ 
year’s out, for all he thinks he’s so set upon Hester now. 
Go thy ways, and leave me to my Scripture, and come no 
more on Sabbath-days wi’ thy vain babbling.” 

So Phihp returned from his mission rather crestfallen, 
but quite as far as ever from “seeing through a glass 
window.” 

Before the year was out, Alice’s prophecy was fulfilled. 
Coulson, who found the position of a rejected lover in the 
same house with the girl who had refused him, too uncom- 
fortable to be endured, as soon as he was convinced that his 
object was decidedly out of his reach, turned his attention 
to some one else. He did not love his new sweetheart as 
he had done Hester : there was more of reason and less of 
fancy in his attachment. But it ended successfully; and, 
before the first snow fell, Philip was best man at his partner’s 
wedding. 


259 


Sylvia’s Lovers 


CHAPTEE XXII 

DEEPENING SHADOWS 

But before Coulson was married, many small events happened 
— small events to all but Philip. To him they were as the 
sun and moon. The days when he went up to Haytersbank 
and Sylvia spoke to him — the days when he went up and she 
had apparently no heart to speak to any one, but left the 
room as soon as he came, or never entered it at all, although 
she must have known that he was there : these were his 
alternations from happiness to sorrow. 

From her parents he always had a welcome. Oppressed 
by their daughter’s depression of spirits, they hailed the 
coming of any visitor as a change for her as well as for 
themselves. The former intimacy with the Corneys was in 
abeyance for all parties, owing to Bessy Comey’s outspoken 
grief for the loss of her cousin, as if she had had reason to 
look upon him as her lover ; whereas Sylvia’s parents felt this 
as a slur upon their daughter’s cause of grief. But, although 
at this time the members of the two families ceased to seek 
after each other’s society, nothing was said. The thread of 
friendship might be joined afresh at any time ; only just now 
it was broken, and Philip was glad of it. Before going to 
Haytersbank, he sought each time for some little present with 
which to make his coming welcome. And now he wished 
even more than ever that Sylvia had cared for learning ; if 
she had, he could have taken her many a pretty ballad or 
story-book, such as were then in vogue. He did try her 
with the translation of the Sorrows of JVerther, so popular at 
the time that it had a place in all pedlars’ baskets, with 
Law’s Serious Call, the Pilgrim's Progress, Klopstock’s Messiah, 
and Paradise Lost. But she could not read it for herself ; and, 
after turning the leaves languidly over, and smiling a little 
at the picture of Charlotte cutting bread and butter in a 

260 


Deepening Shadows 

left-handed manner, she put it aside on the shelf by the 
Complete Farrier, and there Philip saw it, upside down and 
untouched, the next time he came to the farm. 

Many a time during that summer did he turn to the few 
verses in Genesis in which Jacob’s twice seven years’ service 
for Eachel is related, and try and take fresh heart from the 
reward which came to the patriarch’s constancy at last. 
After trying books, nosegays, small presents of pretty articles 
of dress, such as suited the notions of those days, and finding 
them all received with the same languid gratitude, he set 
himself to endeavour to please her in some other way. It 
was time that he should change his tactics ; for the girl was 
becoming weary of the necessity for thanking him, every 
time he came, for some little favour or other. She wished 
he would let her alone, and not watch her continually with 
such sad eyes. Her father and mother hailed her first signs 
of impatient petulance towards him as a return to the old 
state of things, before Kinraid had come to disturb the tenour 
of their lives ; for even Daniel had turned against the 
specksioneer, irritated by the Corneys’ loud moans over the 
loss of the man to whom their daughter said that she was 
attached. If Daniel wished for him to be alive again, it 
was mainly that the Comeys might be convinced that his 
last visit to the neighbourhood of Monkshaven was for the 
sake of the pale and silent Sylvia, and not for that of Bessy, 
who complained of Kinraid’s untimely death, rather as if by 
it she had been cheated of a husband than for any over- 
whelming personal love towards the deceased. 

“If he were after her, he were a big black scoundrel, 
that’s what he were ; and a wish he were alive again to be 
hung. But a dunnot believe it ; them Corney lasses were 
allays a-talkin’ an’ a-thinkin’ on sweethearts, and niver a 
man crossed t’ threshold but they tried him on as a husband.* 
An’ their mother were no better ; Kinraid has spoken civil 
to Bessy, as became a lad to a lass, and she makes an 
ado over him as if they’d been to church together not a 
week sin’.” 


261 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ I dunnot uphold t’ Corneys ; but Molly Corney — as is 
Molly Brunton now — used to speak on this dead man to 
our Sylvie as if he were her sweetheart in old days. Now, 
there’s no smoke without fire, and I’m thinking it’s likely 
enough he were one of them fellows as is always after some 
lass or another, and, as often as not, two or three at a time. 
Now look at Philip, what a different one he is ! He’s niver 
thought on a woman but our Sylvie, I’ll be bound. I wish 
he wern’t so old-fashioned and faint-hearted.” 

“ Ay ! and t’ shop’s doin’ a vast o’ business, I’ve heard 
say. He’s a deal better company, too, nor he used to be. 
He’d a way o’ preaching wi’ him as a couldn’t abide ; but 
now he tak’s his glass, an’ holds his tongue, leavin’ room 
for wiser men to say their say.” 

Such was a conjugal colloquy about this time. Philip 
was gaining ground with Daniel, and that was something 
towards winning Sylvia’s heart ; for she was unaware of her 
father’s change of feeling towards Kinraid, and took all his 
tenderness towards herself as if they were marks of his 
regard for her lost lover and his sympathy in her loss ; 
instead of which he was rather feeling as if it might be a 
good thing, after all, that the fickle-hearted sailor was dead 
and drowned. In fact, Daniel was very like a child in all 
the parts of his character. He was strongly affected by 
whatever was present, and apt to forget the absent. He 
acted on impulse, and too often had reason to be sorry for 
it ; but he hated his sorrow too much to let it teach him 
wisdom for the future. With all his many faults, however, 
he had something in him which made him to be dearly loved, 
both by the daughter whom he indulged, and the wife who 
was in fact superior to him, but whom he imagined that he 
ruled with a wise and absolute sway. 

Love to Sylvia gave Philip tact. He seemed to find out 
that to please the women of the household he must pay all 
possible attention to the man ; and, though he cared little in 
comparison for Daniel, yet this autumn he was continually 
thinking of how he could please him. When he had said or 

262 


Deepening Shadows 

done anything to gratify or amuse her father, Sylvia smiled 
and was kind. Whatever he did was right with his aunt ; 
but even she was unusually glad, when her husband was 
pleased. Still his progress was slow towards his. object; 
and often he sighed himself to sleep with the words, “ Seven 
years, and maybe seven years more.” Then in his dreams 
he saw Kinraid again, sometimes struggling, sometimes sail- 
ing towards land, the only one on board a swift advancing 
ship, alone on deck, stern and avenging ; till Philip awoke 
in remorseful terror. 

Such and similar dreams returned with the greater 
frequency when, in the November of that year, the coast 
between Hartlepool and Monkshaven was overshadowed by 
the presence of guard-ships, driven south from their station 
at North Shields by the resolution which the sailors of that 
port had entered into to resist the press-gang, and the energy 
with which they had begun to carry out their determination. 
For, on a certain Tuesday evening yet remembered by old 
inhabitants of North Shields, 'the sailors in the merchant 
service met together and overpowered the press-gang, dis- 
missing them from the town with the highest contempt, and 
with their jackets reversed. A numerous mob went with 
them to Chirton Bar; gave them three cheers at parting; 
but vowed to tear them limb from limb, should they seek to 
re-enter North Shields. But, a few days afterwards, some 
fresh cause of irritation arose, and five hundred sailors, 
armed with such swords and pistols as they could collect, 
paraded through the town in the most riotous manner, and 
at last attempted to seize the tender Eleanor, on some pre- 
text of the ill-treatment of the impressed men aboard. This 
endeavour failed, however, owing to the energetic conduct of 
the officers in command. Next day this body of sailors set 
off for Newcastle ; but learning, before they reached the 
town, that there was a strong military and civil force pre- 
pared to receive them there, they dispersed for the time ; 
but not before the good citizens had received a great fright, 
the drums of the North Yorkshire militia beating to arms. 

263 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

and the terrified people rushing out into the streets to learn 
the reason of the alarm, and some of them seeing the militia, 
under the command of the Earl of Fauconberg, marching 
from the guard-house adjoining New Gate to the house of 
rendezvous for impressed seamen in the Broad Chase. 

But a few weeks after, the impressment service took 
their revenge for the insults they had been subjected to in 
North Shields. In the dead of night a cordon was formed 
round that town by a regiment stationed at Tynemouth 
barra cks ; the press-gangs belonging to armed vessels, lying 
off Shields harbour, were let loose ; no one within the circle 
could escape, and upwards of two hundred and fifty men, 
sailors, mechanics, labourers of every description, were 
forced on board the armed ships. With that prize they 
set sail, and wisely left the place, where deep passionate 
vengeance was sworn against them. Not all the dread of 
an invasion by the French could reconcile the people of 
these coasts to the necessity of impressment. Fear and 
confusion prevailed after this to within many miles of the 
sea-shore. A Yorkshire gentleman of rank said that his 
labourers dispersed like a covey of birds, because a press- 
gang was reported to have established itself so far inland as 
Tadcaster ; and they only returned to work on the assurance 
from the steward of his master’s protection, but even then- 
begged leave to sleep on straw in the stables or outhouses 
belonging to their landlord, not daring to sleep at their own 
homes. No fish was caught, for the fishermen dared not 
venture out to sea ; the markets were deserted, as the press- 
gangs might come down on any gathering of men; prices 
were raised, and many were impoverished; many others 
ruined. For in the great struggle in which England was 
then involved the navy was esteemed her safeguard ; and 
men must be had at any price of money, or suffering, or of 
injustice. Landsmen were kidnapped and taken to London ; 
there, in too many instances, to be discharged without redress 
and penniless, because they were discovered to be useless 
for the purpose for which they had been taken. 

264 


Deepening Shadows 

Autumn brought back the whaling-ships. But the period 
of their return was full of gloomy anxiety, instead of its 
being the annual time of rejoicing and feasting; of gladdened 
households, where brave steady husbands or sons returned ; 
of unlimited and reckless expenditure, and boisterous joviality 
among those who thought that they had earned unbounded 
licence on shore by their six months of compelled abstinence. 
In other years, this had been the time for new and handsome 
winter-clothing ; for cheerful, if humble, hospitality ; for the 
shopkeepers to display their gayest and best ; for the public- 
houses to be crowded ; for the streets to be full of blue 
jackets, rolling along with merry words and open hearts. In 
other years, the boiling-houses had been full of active workers, 
the staithes crowded with barrels, the ship-carpenters’ yards 
thronged with seamen and captains ; now, a few men, tempted 
by high wages, went stealthily by back-lanes to their work, 
clustering together, with sinister looks, glancing round 
corners, and fearful of every approaching footstep, as if they 
were going on some unlawful business, instead of true honest 
work. Most of them kept their whaling-knives about them, 
ready for bloody defence if they were attacked. The shops 
were almost deserted; there was no unnecessary expendi- 
ture by the men ; they dared not venture out to buy lavish 
presents for the wife or sweetheart or little children. The 
public-houses kept scouts on the look-out ; while fierce men 
drank and swore deep oaths of vengeance in the bar — men 
who did not maunder in their cups, nor grow foohshly 
merry, but in whom liquor called forth all the desperate, bad 
passions of human nature. 

Indeed, all along the coast of Yorkshire, it seemed as if 
a blight hung over the land and the people. Men dodged 
about their daily business with hatred and suspicion in their 
eyes, and many a curse went over the sea to the three fatal 
ships lying motionless at anchor three miles off Monkshaven. 
When first Philip had heard in his shop that these three 
men-of-war might be seen lying fell and still on the grey 
horizon, his heart sank, and he scarcely dared to ask their 

265 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

names. For if one should be the Alcestis ; if Kinraid should 
send word to Sylvia ; if he should say he was living, and 
loving, and faithful ; if it should come to pass that the fact 
of the undehvered message sent by her lover through Philip 
should reach Sylvia’s ears : what would be the position of 
the latter, not merely in her love — that, of course, would be 
hopeless — but in her esteem ? All sophistry vanished ; the 
fear of detection awakened Philip to a sense of guilt ; and, 
besides, he found out, that, in spite of all idle talk and care- 
less slander, he could not help believing that Kinraid was in 
terrible earnest when he uttered those passionate words, and 
entreated that they might be borne to Sylvia. Some instinct 
told Philip that if the specksioneer had only flirted with too 
many, yet that for Sylvia Eobson his love was true and 
vehement. Then Philip tried to convince himself that, from 
all that was said of his previous character, Kinraid was not 
capable of an enduring, constant attachment ; and — with such 
poor opiate to his conscience as he could obtain from this 
notion — Philip was obhged to remain content, until, a day or 
two after the flrst intelligence of the presence of those three 
ships, he learned, with some trouble and pains, that their 
names were the Megcera, the Bellerophon, and the Hanover. 

Then he began to perceive how unlikely it was that the 
Alcestis should have been lingering on this shore all these 
many months. She was, doubtless, gone far away by this 
time ; she had, probably, joined the fleet on the war- station. 
Who could tell what had become of her and her crew ? she 
might have been in battle before now ; and, if so 

So his previous fancies shrank to nothing, rebuked for 
their improbabihty, and with them vanished his self-reproach. 
Yet there were times when the popular attention seemed 
totally absorbed by the dread of the press-gang; when no 
other subject was talked about — hardly, in fact, thought 
about. At such flows of panic, Philip had his own private 
fears lest a flash of light should come upon Sylvia, and 
she should suddenly see that Kinraid’s absence might be 
accounted for in another way besides death. But, when he 

266 


Deepening Shadows 

reasoned, this seemed unlikely. No man-of-war had been 
seen off the coast, or, if seen, had ever been spoken about, 
at the time of Kinraid’s disappearance. If he had vanished 
this winter time, every one would have been convinced that 
the press-gang had seized upon him. Philip had never 
heard any one breathe the dreaded name of the Alcestis. 
Besides, he went on to think, at the farm they are out of 
hearing of this one great weary subject of talk. But it was 
not so; as he became convinced one evening. His aunt 
caught him a little aside, while Sylvia was in the dairy, and 
her husband talking in the shippen with Kester. 

“ For good’s sake, Philip, dunnot thee bring us talk about 
t’ press-gang. It’s a thing as has got hold on my measter, 
till thou’d think him possessed. He’s speaking perpetual on 
it i’ such a way, that thou’d think he were itching to kill ’em 
a’, afore he tasted bread again. He really trembles wi’ rage 
and passion ; an’ a’ night it’s just as bad. He starts up i’ 
his sleep, swearing and cursing at ’em, till I’m sometimes 
afeard he’ll mak’ an end o’ me by mistake. And what mun 
he do last night but open out on Charley Kinraid, and tell 
Sylvia he thought m’appen t’ gang had got hold on him. It 
might mak’ her cry a’ her saut tears o’er again.” 

Philip spoke, by no wish of his own, but as if compelled 
to speak. 

“ An’ who knows but what it’s true ? ” 

The instant these words had come out of his lips, he could 
have bitten his tongue off. And yet, afterwards, it was a sort 
of balm to his conscience that he had so spoken. 

“ What nonsense, Philip ! ” said his aunt ; “ why, these 
fearsome ships were far out o’ sight when he went away, 
good go wi’ him ; and Sylvie just getting o’er her trouble so 
nicely; and ever! my master went on for to say, if they’d 
getten hold on him, he were not a chap to stay wi em ; 
he’d gi’en proofs on his hatred to ’em, time on. He either 
ha’ made off— an’ then sure enough we should ha’ heerd on 
him somehow — them Corneys is full on him still, and they ve 
a deal to do wi’ his folk beyond Newcassel— or, as my master 

267 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

says, he were just t’ chap to hang or drown hissel, sooner 
nor do aught against his will.” 

“What did Sylvie say? ” asked Philip, in a hoarse, low voice. 

“ Say ? why, a’ she could say was to burst out crying ; 
and, after a bit, she just repeated her feyther’s words, and 
said, anyhow he was dead, for he’d niver live to go to sea 
wi’ a press-gang. She knowed him too well for that. Thou 
sees, she thinks a deal on him for a spirited chap, as can do 
what he will. I belie’ me she first began to think on him 
time o’ t’ fight aboard th’ Good Fortune, when Parley were 
killed; and he would seem tame-like to her, if he couldn’t 
conquer press-gangs and men-o’-war. She’s sooner think on 
him drowned, as she’s ne’er to see him again.” 

“ It’s best so,” said Philip ; and then, to calm his unusually 
excited aunt, he promised to avoid the subject of the press- 
gang as much as possible. 

But it was a promise very difficult of performance, for 
Daniel Eobson was, as his wife said, like one possessed. 
He could hardly think of anything else, though he himself 
was occasionally weary of the same constantly recurring 
idea, and would fain have banished it from his mind. He 
was too old a man to be likely to be taken by them ; he had 
no son to become their victim ; but the terror of them, which 
he had braved and defied in his youth, seemed to come back 
and take possession of him in his age ; and with the terror 
came impatient hatred. Since his wife’s illness, the previous 
winter, he had been a more sober man, until now. He was 
never exactly drunk, for he had a strong, well-seasoned head; 
but the craving to hear the last news of the actions of the 
press-gang drew him into Monkshaven nearly every day, at 
this dead agricultural season of the year ; and a public- house 
is generally the focus from which gossip radiates ; and pro- 
bably the amount of drink thus consumed weakened Eobson’s 
power over his mind, and caused the concentration of thought 
on one subject. This may be a physiological explanation of 
what afterwards was spoken of as a supernatural kind of 
possession, leading him to his doom. 

268 


Retaliation 


CHAPTEE XXm 

RETALIATION 

The public-house that had been chosen by the leaders of the 
press-gang in Monkshaven at this time for their rendezvous 
(or “ Kandyvowse,” as it was generally pronounced), was an 
inn of poor repute, with a yard at the back, which opened on 
to the staithe, or quay, nearest to the open sea. A strong, 
high stone wall bounded this grass-grown, mouldy yard on 
two sides ; the house and some unused out-building formed 
the other two. The choice of the place was good enough, 
both as to situation, which was sufficiently isolated, and yet 
near to the widening river ; and, as to the character of the 
landlord, John Hobbs was a failing man, one who seemed as 
if doomed to be unfortunate in all his undertakings ; and the 
consequence of all this was that he was envious of the more 
prosperous, and willing to do anything that might bring him 
in a little present success in life. His household consisted 
of his wife, her niece, who acted as servant, and an out-of- 
doors man, a brother of Ned Simpson, the well-doing butcher, 
who, at one time, had had a fancy for Sylvia. But the one 
brother was prosperous ; the other had gone on sinking in 
life, like him who was now his master. Neither Hobbs nor 
his man Simpson were absolutely bad men ; if things had 
gone well with them, they might each have been as scrupulous 
and conscientious as their neighbours ; and even now, sup- 
posing the gain in money to be equal, they would sooner 
have done good than evil ; but a very small sum was enough 
to turn the balance. And, in a greater degree than in most 
cases, was the famous maxim of Rochefoucault true with 
them ; for in the misfortunes of their friends they seemed to 
see some justification of their own. It was blind fate dealing 
out events ; not that the events themselves were the inevitable 
consequences of folly or misconduct. To such men as these 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

the large sum offered by the lieutenant of the press-gang for 
the accommodation of the Mariners’ Arms was simply and 
immediately irresistible. The best room in the dilapidated 
house was put at the service of the commanding officer of 
the impress service, and all other arrangements made at his 
desire, irrespective of all the former unprofitable sources of 
custom and of business. If the relatives both of Hobbs and 
of Simpson had not been so well known and so prosperous 
in the town, they themselves would have received more 
marks of popular ill opinion than they did, during the winter 
the events of which are now being recorded. As it was, 
people spoke to them when they appeared at kirk or at 
market, but held no conversation with them ; no, not although 
they each appeared better dressed than they had either of 
them done for years past, and although their whole manner 
showed a change, inasmuch as they had been formerly 
snarling and misanthropic, and were now civil, almost to 
deprecation. 

Every one who was capable of understanding the state of 
feeling in Monkshaven, at this time, must have been aware 
that at any moment an explosion might take place ; and 
probably there were those who had judgment enough to be 
surprised that it did not take place sooner than it did. For, 
until February, there were only occasional cries and growls of 
rage, as the press-gang made their captures first here, then 
there ; often, apparently, tranquil for days ; then heard of at 
some distance along the coast ; then carrying off a seaman 
from the very heart of the town. They seemed afraid of 
provoking any general hostility, such as that which had 
driven them from Shields, and would have conciliated the 
inhabitants if they could ; the officers on the service and on 
board the three men-of-war coming often into the town, 
spending largely, talking to all with cheery friendliness, and 
making themselves very popular in such society as they 
could obtain access to, at the houses of the neighbouring 
magistrates or at the rectory. But this, however agreeable, 
did not forward the object the impress -service had in view ; 

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Retaliation 

and, accordingly, a more decided step was taken at the time 
when, although there was no apparent evidence as to the 
fact, the town was full of the Greenland mariners, coming 
quietly in to renew their yearly engagements, which, when 
done, would legally entitle them to protection from impress- 
ment. One night — it was on a Saturday, February 23rd, 
when there was a bitter black frost, with a north-east wind 
sweeping through the streets, and men and women were 
close shut in their houses — all were startled in their house- 
hold content and warmth by the sound of the fire-bell busily 
swinging, and pealing out for help. The fire-bell was kept 
in the market-house where High Street and Bridge Street 
met : every one knew what it meant. Some dwelling, or 
maybe a boiling-house, was on fire, and neighbourly assist- 
ance was summoned with aU speed, in a town where no 
water was laid on, nor fire-engines kept in readiness. Men 
snatched up their hats, and rushed out; wives following, 
some with the readiest wraps they could lay hands on, with 
which to clothe the over-hasty husbands, others from that 
mixture of dread and curiosity which draws people to the 
scene of any disaster. Those of the market-people who 
were making the best of their way homewards having waited 
in the town till the early darkness concealed their path, 
turned back at the sound of the ever-clanging fire-bell, ringing 
out faster and faster, as if the danger became every instant 
more pressing. 

As men ran against or alongside of each other, their 
breathless question was ever, “ Where is it ? ” and no 
one could tell ; so they pressed onwards into the market- 
place, sure of obtaining the information desired there, 
where the fire-bell kept calling out with its furious metal 
tongue. 

The dull oil-lamps in the adjoining streets only made 
darkness visible in the thronged market-place, where the 
buzz of many men’s unanswered questions was rising louder 
and louder. A strange feeling of dread crept over those 
nearest to the closed market-house. Above them in the air 

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the bell was still clanging ; but before them was a door fast 
shut and locked ; no one to speak and tell them why they 
were summoned — where they ought to be. They were at 
the heart of the mystery, and it was a silent blank ! Their 
unformed dread took shape at the cry from the outside of the 
crowd, from where men were still coming down the eastern 
side of Bridge Street. “The gang ! the gang ! ” shrieked out 
some one. “ The gang are upon us ! Help ! help ! ” Then 
the fire-bell had been a decoy ; a sort of seething the kid in 
its mother’s milk, leading men into a snare through their 
kindliest feelings. Some dull sense of this added to utter 
dismay, and made them struggle and strain to get to all the 
outlets, save that in which a fight was now going on ; the 
swish of heavy whips, the thud of bludgeons, the groans, 
the growls of wounded or infuriated men, coming with 
terrible distinctness through the darkness to the quickened 
ear of fear. 

A breathless group rushed up the blackness of a narrow 
entry, to stand still awhile, and recover strength for fresh 
running. For a time, nothing but heavy pants and gasps 
were heard amongst them. No one knew his neighbour ; and 
their good feeling, so lately abused and preyed upon, made 
them full of suspicion. The first who spoke was recognised 
by his voice. 

“ Is it thee, Daniel Eobson ? ” asked his neighbour in a 
low tone. 

“ Ay ! Who else should it be ? ” 

“ A dunno.” 

“ If a am to be any one else, I’d like to be a chap of 
nobbut eight stun. A’m welly done f or ! ” 

“ It were as bloody a shame as iver I heerd on. Who’s 
to go t’ t’ next fire, a’d like to know ? ” 

“ A tell yo’ what, lads,” said Daniel, recovering his breath, 
but speaking in gasps. “We were a pack o’ cowards to 
let ’em carry off yon chaps as easy as they did, a’m 
reckoning ! ” 

“ A think so, indeed,” said another voice. 

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Daniel went on — 

“ We was two hunder, if we was a man ; an’ t’ gang has 
niver numbered above twelve.” 

“ But they was armed. A seen t’ glitter on their cut- 
lasses,” spoke out a fresh voice. 

“ What then ! ” replied he who had latest come, and who 
stood at the mouth of the entry. “ A had my whalin’ knife 
wi’ me i’ my pea-jacket as my missis threw at me, and a’d ha’ 
ripped ’em up as soon as winkin’, if a could ha’ thought what 
was best to do, wi’ that d — d bell makin’ such a din reet above 
us. A man can but die onest, and we was ready to go inf f 
fire for f save folks’ lives ; and yet we’d none on us f wit to 
see as we might ha’ saved yon poor chaps as screeched out 
for help.” 

“ They’ll ha’ getten ’em to f Eandyvowse by now,” said 
some one. 

“ They cannot tak’ ’em aboard till morning ; f tide won’t 
serve,” said the last speaker but one. 

Daniel Eobson spoke out the thought that was surging up 
into the brain of every one there. 

“ There’s a chance for us a’. How many be we ? ” By 
dint of touching each other the numbers were counted. 
Seven. “ Seven. But if us seven turns out and rouses f 
town, there’ll be many a score ready to gang to f Mariners’ 
Arms, and it’ll be easy work reskyin’ them chaps as is pressed. 
Us seven, each man- Jack on us, go and seek up his friends, 
and get him as well as he can to f church steps; then, 
mebbe, there’ll be some theere as’ll not be so soft as we was, 
lettin’ them poor chaps be carried off from under our noses, 
just becase our ears was busy listenin’ to yon confounded 
bell, whose clip-clappin’ tongue a’U tear out, afore this week 
is out.” 

Before Daniel had finished speaking, those nearest to the 
entrance muttered their assent to his project, and had stolen 
off, keeping to the darkest side of the streets and lanes, which 
they threaded in different directions; most of them going 
straight as sleuth-hounds to the haunts of the wildest and 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

most desperate portion of the sea-faring population of Monks- 
haven. For, in the breasts of many, revenge for the misery 
and alarm of the past winter took a deeper and more fero- 
cious form than Daniel had thought of, when he made his 
proposal of a rescue. To him it was an adventure, like 
many he had been engaged in, in his younger days ; indeed, 
the liquor he had drunk had given him a fictitious youth 
for the time; and it was more in the light of a rough 
frolic, of which he was to be the leader, that he limped 
along (always lame from old attacks of rheumatism), chuck- 
ling to himself at the apparent stillness of the town, which 
gave no warning to the press-gang at the Rendezvous of 
anything in the wind. Daniel, too, had his friends to 
summon ; old hands like himself, but “ deep uns,” also like 
himself, as he imagined. 

It was nine o’clock when all who were summoned met at 
the church steps ; and by nine o’clock Monkshaven, in those 
days, was more quiet and asleep than many a town at present 
is at midnight. The church and churchyard above them 
were flooded with silver light, for the moon was high in the 
heavens ; the irregular steps were here and there in pure 
white clearness, here and there in blackest shadow. But 
more than half way up to the top, men clustered like bees ; 
all pressing so as to be near enough to question those who 
stood nearest to the planning of the attack. Here and there, 
a woman, with wild gestures and shrill voice, that no entreaty 
would hush down to the whispered pitch of the men, pushed 
her way through the crowd — this one imploring immediate 
action, that adjuring those around her to smite and spare not 
those who had carried off her “ man ” — the father, the bread- 
winner. Low down in the darkened silent town were many 
whose hearts went with the angry and excited crowd, and 
who would bless them and caress them for that night’s deeds. 
Daniel soon found himself a laggard in planning, compared 
with some of those around him. But when, with the rushing 
sound of many steps and but few words, they had arrived 
at the blank, dark, shut-up Mariners’ Arms, they paused in 

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Retaliation 

surprise at the uninhabited look of the whole house ! it was 
Daniel once more who took the lead. 

“ Speak ’em fair,” said he ; “ try good words first. Hobbs 
’ll mebbe let ’em out quiet, if we can catch a word'wi’ him. 
A say, Hobbs,” said he, raising his voice, “ is a’ shut up for 
t’ neet ; for a’d be glad of a glass. A’m Dannel Eobson, 
thou knows.” 

Not one word in reply, any more than from the tomb ; 
but his speech had been heard nevertheless. The crowd 
behind him began to jeer and to threaten ; there was no 
longer any keeping down their voices, their rage, their terrible 
oaths. If doors and windows had not of late been strengthened 
with bars of iron, in anticipation of some such occasion, they 
would have been broken in with the onset of the fierce and 
now yelling crowd, who rushed against them with the force 
of a battering-ram, to recoil in baffled rage from the vain 
assault. No sign, no sound from within, in that breathless 
pause. 

“ Come away round here ! a’ve found a way .to t’ back o’ 
behint, where belike it’s not so well fenced,” said Daniel, who 
had made way for younger and more powerful men to 
conduct the assault, and had employed his time meanwhile 
in examining the back premises. The men rushed after him, 
almost knocking him down, as he made his way into the lane 
into which the doors of the out-buildings belonging to the inn 
opened. Daniel had already broken the fastening of that 
which opened into a damp, mouldy- smelling shippen, in one 
corner of which a poor lean cow shifted herself on her legs, 
in an uneasy, restless manner, as her sleeping -place was 
invaded by as many men as could cram themselves into the 
dark hold. Daniel, at the end farthest from the door, was 
almost smothered before he could break down the rotten 
wooden shutter, that, when opened, displayed the weedy 
yard of the old inn, the full clear light defining the out- 
line of each blade of grass by the delicate black shadow 
behind. 

This hole, used to give air and light to what had once 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

been a stable, in the days when horse-travellers were in the 
habit of coming to the Mariners’ Arms, was large enough to 
admit the passage of a man ; and Daniel, in virtue of its 
discovery, was the first to get through. But he was larger 
and heavier than he had been ; his lameness made him less 
agile, and the impatient crowd behind him gave him a help- 
ing push that sent him down on the round stones with which 
the yard was paved, and for the time disabled him so much 
that he could only just crawl out of the way of leaping feet 
and heavy-nailed boots, which came through the opening, 
till the yard was filled with men, who now set up a fierce, 
derisive shout, which, to their delight, was answered from 
within. No more silence, no more dead opposition : a living 
struggle, a glowing, raging fight ; and Daniel thought he 
should be obhged to sit there still, leaning against the wall, 
inactive, while the strife and the action were going on in 
which he had once been foremost. 

He saw the stones torn up ; he saw them used with good 
effect on the unguarded back-door ; he cried out in useless 
warning, as he saw the upper windows open, and aim taken 
among the crowd; but just then the door gave way, and 
there was an involuntary forward motion in the throng ; so 
that no one was so disabled by the shots as to prevent his 
forcing his way in with the rest. And now the sounds came, 
veiled by the walls, as of some raging, ravening beast growling 
over his prey; the noise came and went — once utterly 
ceased, and Daniel raised himself with difficulty to ascertain 
the cause : when again the roar came clear and fresh, and 
men poured into the yard again, shouting and rejoicing over 
the rescued victims of the press-gang. Daniel hobbled up, 
and shouted, and rejoiced, and shook hands with the rest, 
hardly caring to understand that the lieutenant and his gang 
had quitted the house by a front- window, and that all had 
poured out in search of them ; the greater part, however, 
returning to liberate the prisoners, and then glut their ven- 
geance on the house and its contents. 

From all the windows, upper and lower, furniture was 
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Retaliation 

now being thrown into the yard. The smash of glass, the 
heavier crash of wood, the cries, the laughter, the oaths— all 
excited Daniel to the utmost : and, forgetting his bruises, he 
pressed forward to lend a helping hand. The wild, rough 
success of his scheme almost turned his head. He hurrah’d 
at every flagrant piece of destruction ; he shook hands with 
every one around him ; and, at last, when the destroyers 
inside paused to take breath, he cried out — 

“ If a was as young as onest a was, a’d have t’ Eandy- 
vowse down, and mak’ a bonfire on it. We’d ring t’ fire-bell 
then t’ some purpose.” 

No sooner said than done. Their excitement was ready 
to take the slightest hint of mischief ; old chairs, broken 
tables, odd drawers, smashed chests, were rapidly and 
skilfully heaped into a pyramid ; and one who at the first 
broaching of the idea had gone for live coals, the speedier to 
light up the fire, came now through the crowd with a large 
shovelful of red-hot cinders. The rioters stopped to take 
breath and look on, like children, at the uncertain flickering 
blaze, which sprang high one moment, and dropped down 
the next, only to creep along the base of the heap of wreck, 
and make secure of its future work. Then the lurid blaze 
darted up wild, high, and irrepressible ; and the men around 
gave a cry of fierce exultation, and in rough mirth began to 
try and push each other in. In one of the pauses of the 
rushing, roaring noise of the flames, the moaning low and 
groan of the poor alarmed cow fastened up in the shippen 
caught Daniel’s ear, and he understood her groans as well as 
if they had been words. He limped out of the yard through 
the now deserted house, where men were busy at the mad 
work of destruction, and found his way back to the lane into 
which the shippen opened. The cow was dancing about at 
the roar, and dazzle, and heat of the fire ; but Daniel knew 
how to soothe her, and in a few minutes he had a rope round 
her neck, and led her gently out from the scene of her alarm. 
He was still in the lane, when Simpson, the man- of-all- work 
at the Mariners’ Arms, crept out of some hiding-place in the 

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deserted out-building, and stood suddenly face to face with 
Robson. 

The man was white with fear and rage. 

“ Here, tak’ thy beast, and lead her wheere she’ll noane 
hear yon cries and shouts. She’s fairly moithered wi’ heat 
an’ noise.” 

“ They’re brennin’ ivery rag I have i’ t’ world,” gasped 
out Simpson ; “I niver had much, and now I’m a beggar.” 

“ Well ! thou shouldn’t ha’ turned again’ thine own town- 
folks, and harboured t’ gang. Sarves thee reet. A’d noane 
be here leadin’ heasts, if a were as young as a were ; a’d be 
in t’ thick on it.” 

“ It was thee set ’m on — a heerd thee — a see’d thee 
a-helping on ’em t’ break in ; they’d niver ha’ thought on 
attackin’ t’ house, and settin’ fire to yon things, if thou hadn’t 
spoken on it.” Simpson was now fairly crying. But Daniel 
did not realise what the loss of all the small property he had 
in the world was to the poor fellow (rapscallion though he 
was, broken-down, unprosperous ne’er-do-weel) in his pride 
at the good work he believed he had set on foot. 

“ Ay,” said he ; “ it’s a great thing for folk to have a chap 
for t’ lead ’em wi’ a head on his shouthers. A misdoubt me 
if there were a felly theere as would ha’ thought o’ routling 
out yon wasps’ nest ; it tak’s a deal o’ mother- wit to be up 
to things. But t’ gang’ll niver harbour theere again, one 
while. A only wish we’d cotched ’em. An’ a should like t’ 
ha’ gi’en Hobbs a bit o’ my mind.” 

“ He’s had his sauce,” said Simpson dolefully. “ Him 
and me is ruined.” 

“ Tut, tut ; thou’s got thy brother, he’s rich enough. And 
Hobbs T1 do a deal better ; he’s had his lesson now, and he’ll 
stick to his own side, time to come. Here, tak’ thy beast an’ 
look after her, for my bones is achin’. An’ mak’ thysel’ 
scarce; for some o’ them fellys has getten their blood up, 
an’ wunnot be for treating thee o’er well, if they fall in 
wi’ thee.” 

“ Hobbs ought to be served out ; it were him as made t’ 
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Retaliation 

bargain wi’ lieutenant ; and he’s off safe wi’ his wife and his 
money-bag, and a m left a beggar this neet i’ Monkshaven 
street. My brother and me has had words, and he’ll do 
nought for me but curse me. A had three crown-pieces, 
and a good pair o’ breeches, and a shirt, and a dare say 
better nor two pair o’ stockings. A wish t’ gang, and thee, 
and Hohbs, and them mad folk up yonder, were a’ down i’ 
hell, a do.” 

“ Coom, lad,” said Daniel, noways offended at his com- 
panion’s wish on his hehalf. “ A’m noane flush mysel’, but 
here’s half-a-crown and tuppence ; it’s a’ a’ve getten wi’ me ; 
but it’ll keep thee and t’ beast i’ food and shelter to-neet, and 
get thee a glass o’ comfort too. A had thought o’ takin’ one 
mysel’ ; but a shannot ha’ a penny left, so a’ll just toddle 
whoam to bay missus.” 

Daniel was not in the habit of feeling any emotion at 
actions not directly affecting himself ; or else he might have 
despised the poor wretch who immediately clutched at the 
money, and overwhelmed that man with slobbery thanks 
whom he had not a minute before been cursing. But all 
Simpson’s stronger passions had been long ago used up ; 
now he only faintly liked and disliked, where once he loved 
and hated ; his only vehement feeling was for himself ; that 
cared for, other men might wither or flourish as best suited 
them. 

Many of the doors which had been close shut, when the 
crowd went down the High Street, were partially open, as 
Daniel slowly returned ; and light streamed from them on the 
otherwise dark road. The news of the successful attempt at 
rescue had reached those who had sate in mourning and in 
desolation an hour or two ago, and several of these pressed 
forwards, as from their watching corner they recognised 
Daniel’s approach ; they pressed forward into the street to 
shake him by the hand, to thank him (for his name had been 
bruited abroad as one of those who had planned the affair) ; 
and at several places he was urged to have a dram — urgency 
that he was loath for many reasons to refuse ; but his 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

increasing uneasiness and pain made him for once abstinent, 
and only anxious to get home and rest. But he could not 
help being both touched and flattered at the way in which 
those who formed his “ world ” looked upon him as a hero ; 
and was not insensible to the words of blessing which a wife, 
whose husband had been impressed and rescued this night, 
poured down upon him as he passed. 

“Theere, theere — dunnot crack thy throat wi’ blessin’. 
Thy man would ha’ done as much for me, though mebbe he 
mightn’t ha’ shown so much gumption and capability : but 
them’s gifts, and not to be proud on.” 

When Daniel reached the top of the hill on the road 
home, he turned to look round ; but he was lame and bruised ; 
he had gone along slowly; the fire had pretty nearly died 
out ; only a red hue in the air about the houses at the end of 
the long High Street, and a hot lurid mist against the hill- 
side, beyond where the Mariners’ Arms had stood, were still 
left as signs and token of the deed of violence. 

Daniel looked and chuckled. “ That comes o’ ringin’ t’ 
fire-bell,” said he to himself ; “ it were shame for it to be 
tollin’ a he, poor oud story- telller.” 


CHAPTEE XXIV 

BRIEF REJOICING 

Daniel’s unusually late absence from home disturbed Bell 
and Sylvia not a little. He was generally at home between 
eight and nine on market-days. They expected to see him 
the worse for liquor at such times ; but this did not shock 
them ; he was no worse than most of his neighbours, indeed 
better than several, who went off once or twice a year, or 
even oftener, on drinking bouts of two or three days’ duration, 
returning pale, sodden, and somewhat shame-faced, when all 

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Brief Rejoicing 

their money was gone, and, after the conjugal reception was 
well over, settling down into hard-working and decently sober 
men, until the temptation again got power over them. But, 
on market-days, every man drank more than usual ; every 
bargain or agreement was ratified by drink ; they came from 
greater or less distances, either afoot or on horseback, and 
the “ good accommodation for man and beast ” (as the old 
inn-signs expressed it) always included a considerable amount 
of liquor to be drunk by the man. 

Daniel’s way of announcing his intention of drinking 
more than ordinary was always the same. He would say at 
the last moment, “ Missus, I’ve a mind to get fuddled to- 
neet,” and be off, disregarding her look of remonstrance, and 
little heeding the injunctions she would call after him to 
beware of such and such companions, or to attend to his 
footsteps on his road home. 

But this night he had given no such warning. Bell and 
Sylvia put the candle on the low window-seat at the usual 
hour to guide him through the fields — it was a habit kept up 
even on moonlight nights like this — and sate on each side of 
the fire, at first scarcely caring to listen, so secure were they 
of his return. Bell dozed, and Sylvia sate gazing at the fire 
with abstracted eyes, thinking of the past year and of the 
anniversary which was approaching of the day when she had 
last seen the lover whom she believed to be dead, lying some- 
where, fathoms deep beneath the surface of that sunny sea 
on which she looked day by day, without ever seeing his up- 
turned face through the depths, with whatsoever heart-sick 
longing for just one more sight she yearned and inwardly 
cried. If she could set her eyes on his bright, handsome 
face, that face which was fading from her memory, over- 
tasked in the too frequent efforts to recall it ; if she could 
but see him once again, coming over the waters, beneath 
which he lay, with supernatural motion, awaiting her at the 
stile, with the evening sun shining ruddy into his bonny 
eyes, even though, after that one instant of vivid and visible 
life, he faded into mist ; if she could but see him now, sitting 

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in the faintly flickering fire-light in the old happy, careless 
way, on a corner of the dresser, his legs dangling, his busy 
fingers playing with some of her woman’s work — she wrung 
her hands tight together as she implored some, any. Power 
to let her see him just once again — just once — for one 
minute of passionate delight ! Never again would she forget 
that dear face, if but once more she might set her eyes 
upon it ! 

Her mother’s head fell with a sudden jerk, and she roused 
herself up ; and Sylvia put by her thought of the dead, and 
her craving after his presence, into that receptacle of the 
heart where all such are kept closed and sacred from the 
light of common day. 

“ Feyther’s late,” said Bell. 

“ It’s gone eight,” replied Sylvia. 

“ But our clock is better nor an hour forrard,” answered 
Bell. 

“ Ay, but t’ wind brings Monkshaven bells clear to-night. 
I heerd t’ eight o’clock bell ringing, not five minutes ago.” 

It was the fire-bell ; but she had not distinguished the 
sound. 

There was another long silence, both wide awake this 
time. 

“ He’ll have his rheumatics again,” said Bell. 

“ It’s cold, for sartin,” said Sylvia. “ March weather 
come afore its time. But I’ll make him a treacle-posset ; it’s 
a famous thing for keeping off boasts.” 

The treacle-posset was entertainment enough for both, 
while it was being made. But, once placed in a little 
basin in the oven, there was again time for wonder and 
anxiety. 

“ He said nought about having a bout, did he, mother ? ” 
asked Sylvia at length. 

“ No,” said Bell, her face a little contracting. After a 
while she added, “ There’s many a one as has husbands that 
goes off drinking, without iver saying a word to their wives. 
My master is none o’ that mak’.” 

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Brief Rejoicing 

“ Mother,” broke in Sylvia again, “ I’ll just go and get t 
lantern out of t’ shippen, and go up t’ brow, and mebbe to t’ 
asb-field end.” 

“ Do, lass,” said her mother. “ I’ll get my wraps and go 
with thee.” 

“ Thou shall do niver such a thing,” said Sylvia. “ Tbou’s 
too frail to go out i’ t’ night air, such a night as this.” 

“ Then call Kester up.” 

“ Not I. I’m noane afraid o’ t’ dark.” 

“ But of what thou mayst meet i’ t’ dark, lass ? ” 

Sylvia shivered all over at the sudden thought, suggested 
by this speech of her mother’s, that the idea that had flashed 
into her own mind, of going to look for her father, might be 
an answer to the invocation to the Powers which she had 
made not long ago, that she might indeed meet her dead 
lover at the ash-field stile ; but, though she shivered as this 
superstitious fancy came into her head, her heart beat firm 
and regular ; not from darkness nor from the spirits of the 
dead was she going to shrink ; her great sorrow had taken 
away all her girlish nervous fear. 

She went ; and she came back. Neither man nor spirit 
had she seen ; the wind was blowing on the height, enough 
to sweep all creatures before it ; but no one was coming. 

So they sate down again to keep watch. At length his 
step was heard close to the door ; and it startled them even 
in their state of expectation. 

“ Why, feyther ! ” cried Sylvia as he entered ; while his 
wife stood up trembling, but not saying a word. 

“ A’m a’most done up,” said he, sitting heavily down on 
the chair nearest the door. 

“ Poor old feyther ! ” said Sylvia, stooping to take off his 
heavy clogged shoes ; while Bell took the posset out of the 
oven. 

“ What’s this ? posset ? what creatures women is for 
slops ! ” said he ; but he drank it all the same, while Sylvia 
fastened the door, and brought the flaring candle from the 
window-seat. The fresh arrangement of light displayed his 

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face, blackened with smoke, and his clothes disarranged and 
torn. 

“ Who’s been melling wi’ thee ? ” asked Bell. 

“No one has melled wi’ me ; but a’ve been mellin’ t’ 
gang at last.” 

“ Thee : they niver were for pressing thee ! ” exclaimed 
both the women at once. 

“ No ! they knowed better. They’n getten their belly- 
ful, as it is. Next time they try it on, a reckon they’ll ax if 
Daniel Eobson is wi’in bearin’. A’ve led a resky this neet, 
and saved nine or ten honest chaps as was pressed, and 
carried off to t’ Eandyvowse. Me and some others did it. 
And Hobbs’ things and t’ lieutenant’s is a’ burnt ; and by 
this time, a reckon, t’ Eandyvowse is pretty nigh four walls, 
ready for a parish-pound.” 

“ Thou’rt niver for saying thou burnt it down wi’ t’ gang 
in it, for sure ? ” asked Bell. 

“ Na, na, not this time. T’ gang fled up t’ hill like 
coveys ; and Hobbs and his folks carried off a bag o’ money , 
but t’ oud tumbledown place is just a heap o’ brick and 
mortar ; an’ t’ furniture is smoulderin’ inf ashes ; and, best of 
a’, f men is free, and will niver be cotched wi’ a fire-bell again.” 

And so he went on to tell of the ruse by which they had 
been enticed into the market-place ; interrupted from time 
to time by their eager questions, and interrupting himself, 
every now and then, with exclamations of weariness and 
pain, which made him at last say — 

“ Now a’m willing to tell yo’ a’ about it to-morrow, for 
it’s not ivery day a man can do such great things ; but to- 
neet a mun go to bed, even if King George were wantin’ for 
to know how a managed it a’.” 

He went wearily upstairs, and wife and daughter both 
strove their best to ease his aching limbs, and make him 
comfortable. The warming-pan, only used on state occa- 
sions, was taken down and unpapered for his service ; and, 
as he got between the warm sheets, he thanked Sylvia and 
her mother in a sleepy voice, adding — 

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“ It’s a vast o’ comfort to think on yon poor lads as is 
sleepin’ i’ their own homes this neet ” ; and then slumber fell 
upon him, and he was hardly roused by Bell’s softly kissing 
his weather-beaten cheek, and saying low — 

“ God bless thee, my man ! Thou was allays for them 
that was down and put upon.” 

He murmured some monosyllabic reply, unheard by his 
wife, who stole away to undress herself noiselessly, and laid 
herself down on her side of the bed, as gently as her stiffened 
limbs would permit. 

They were late in rising the next morning. Kester was 
long since up, and at his work among the cattle, before he 
saw the house-door open to admit the fresh, chill morning 
air ; and even then Sylvia brushed softly past, and went about 
almost on tiptoe. When the porridge was ready, Kester 
was called in to his breakfast, which he took, sitting at the 
dresser, with the family. A large wooden platter stood in 
the middle ; and each had a bowl of the same material filled 
with milk. The way was for every one to dip his pewter 
spoon into the central dish, and convey as much or as little 
as he liked at a time of the hot porridge into his pure fresh 
milk. But, to-day. Bell told Kester to help himself all at 
once, and to take his bowl up to the master’s room and 
keep him company. For Daniel was in bed, resting from 
his weariness, and bemoaning his painful bruises, whenever 
he thought of them. But his mind was still so much 
occupied with the affair of the previous night, that Bell 
judged rightly that a new listener would give ease to his 
body as well as to his mind ; and her proposal of Kester’ s 
carrying up his breakfast had been received by Daniel with 
satisfaction. 

So Kester went up slowly, carrying his over-full basin 
tenderly, and seated himself on the step leading down into 
the bed-room (for levels had not been calculated, when the 
old house was built), facing his master, who, half-sitting up 
in the blue check-bed, not unwillingly began his relation 
again; to which Kester listened so attentively that his 

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spoon was often arrested in its progress from the basin to 
his mouth, open ready to receive it, while he gazed with un- 
winking eyes at Daniel, narrating his exploits. 

But, after Daniel had fought his battles o’er again to 
every auditor within his reach, he found the seclusion of his 
chamber rather oppressive, without even the usual week- 
days’ noises below; so after dinner, though far from well, 
he came down, and wandered about the stable and the fields 
nearest to the house, consulting with Kester as to crops and 
manure for the most part ; but every now and then breaking 
out into an episodical chuckle over some part of last night’s 
proceedings. Kester enjoyed the day even more than his 
master ; for he had no bruises to remind him that, although 
a hero, he was also flesh and blood. 

When they returned to the house, they found Philip 
there ; for it was already dusk. It was Kester’s usual 
Sunday plan to withdraw to bed at as early an hour as he 
could manage to sleep, often in winter before six ; but now 
he was too full of interest in what Philip might have to tell 
of Monkshaven news, to forego his Sabbath privilege of 
spending the evening sitting on the chair at the end of the 
dresser, behind the door. 

Philip was as close to Sylvia as he could possibly get 
without giving her offence, when they came in. Her 
manner was listless and civil ; she had lost all that active 
feeling towards him which made him positively distasteful, 
and called out her girlish irritation and impertinence. She 
now was rather glad to see him than otherwise. He brought 
some change into the heavy monotony of her life — monotony 
so peaceful, until she had been stirred by passion out of that 
content with the small daily events which had now become 
burdensome recurrences. Insensibly to herself, she was 
becoming dependent on his timid devotion, his constant 
attention ; and he, lover- like, once so attracted, in spite of 
his judgment, by her liveliness and piquancy, now doted 
on her languor, and thought her silence more sweet than 
words. 


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He had only just arrived, when master and man came in. 
He had been to afternoon chapel ; none of them had thought 
of going to the distant church ; worship with them was only 
an occasional duty ; and this day their minds had been too full 
of the events of the night before. Daniel sate himself heavily 
down in his accustomed chair, the three-cornered arm-chair 
in the fireside corner, which no one thought of anybody else 
ever occupying on any occasion whatever. In a minute or 
two he interrupted Philip’s words of greeting and inquiry by 
breaking out into the story of the rescue of last night. But, 
to the mute surprise of Sylvia, the only one who noticed it, 
Philip’s face, instead of expressing admiration and pleasant 
wonder, lengthened into dismay ; once or twice he began to 
interrupt, but stopped himself as if he would consider his 
words again. Kester was never tired of hearing his master 
talk ; by long living together they understood every fold of 
each other’s minds, and small expressions had much signifi- 
cance to them. Bell, too, sate thankful that her husband 
should have done such deeds. Only Sylvia was made uneasy 
by Philip’s face and manner. When Daniel had ended, there 
was a great silence, instead of the questions and compliments 
he looked to receive. He became testy, and, turning to Bell, 
said — 

“ My nephew looks as though he was a-thinking more on 
t’ little profit he has made on his pins an’ bobs, than as if he 
was heeding how honest men were saved from being haled 
out to yon tender, an’ carried out o’ sight o’ wives and little 
’uns for iver. Wives an’ little ’uns may go to t’ workhouse 
or clem, for aught he cares.” 

Philip went very red, and then more sallow than usual. 
He had not been thinking of Charley Kinraid, but of quite 
another thing, while Daniel had told his story ; but this last 
speech of the old man’s brought up the remembrance. that 
was always quick, do what he would to smother or strangle 
it. He did not speak for a moment or two, then he said — 

“ To-day has not been like Sabbath in Monkshaven. T’ 
rioters, as folks call ’em, have been about all night. They 

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wanted to give battle to t’ men-o’ -war’s men ; and it were 
taken up by th’ better end, and they’ve sent to my Lord 
Malton for t’ militia; and they’re come into t’ town, and 
they’re hunting for a justice for t’ read th’ act ; folk do say 
there’ll be niver a shop opened to-morrow.” 

This was rather a more serious account of the progress of 
the affair than any one had calculated upon. They looked 
grave upon it awhile ; then Daniel took heart and said — 

“ A think we’d done a’most enough last neet ; but men’s 
not to be stopped wi’ a straw, when their blood is up ; still, it’s 
hard lines to call out t’ sojers, even if they be but militia. So 
what we seven hatched in a dark entry has ta’en a lord to 
put a stop to ’t ! ” continued he, chuckling a little, but more 
faintly this time. 

Philip went on, still graver than before, boldly continuing 
to say what he knew would be discordant to the family he 
loved so well. 

“ I should ha’ tolled yo’ all about it ; I thought on it just 
as a bit o’ news ; I’d niver thought on such a thing as uncle 
there having been in it ; and I’m main sorry to hear on it,, 
I am.” 

“ Why? ” said Sylvia breathlessly. 

“ It’s niver a thing to be sorry on. I’m proud and glad,” 
said Bell. 

“ Let-a-be, let-a-be,” said Daniel, in much dudgeon. “ A 
were a fool to tell him o’ such-like doings ; they’re noane i’ 
his line; we’ll talk on yard-measures now.” 

Philip took no notice of this poor attempt at sarcasm : he 
seemed as if lost in thought ; then he said — 

“ I’m vexed to plague yo’ ; but I’d best say all I’ve got i’ 
my mind. There was a vast o’ folk at our chapel speaking 
about it — last night’s doings and this morning’s work — and 
how them as set it afoot was assured o’ being clapt inf prison 
and tried for it ; and, when I heered uncle say as he was one, 
it like ran through me ; for they say as f justices will be all 
on f Government side, and mad for vengeance.” 

For an instant there was dead silence. The women 
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Brief Rejoicing 

looked at each other with blank eyes, as if they were as yet 
unable to take in the new idea, that the conduct which had 
seemed to them a subject for such just pride could be re- 
garded by any one as deserving of punishment or retribu- 
tion. Daniel spoke, before they had recovered from their 
amazement. 

“ A’m noane sorry for what a did, an’ a’d do it again 
to-neet, if need were. So theere’s for thee. Thou may tell 
t’ justices fra’ me, that a reckon a did righter nor them, as 
letten poor fellys be carried off i’ t’ very midst o’ t’ town 
they’re called justices for.” 

Perhaps Philip had better have held his tongue ; but he 
believed in the danger, which he was anxious to impress 
upon his uncle, in order that, knowing what was to be 
apprehended, the latter might take some pains to avert it. 

He went on. 

“ But they’re making a coil about th’ Eandyvowse being 
all destroyed ! ” 

Daniel had taken down his pipe from the shelf in the 
chimney-corner, and was stuffing tobacco into the bowl. 
He went on pretending to do this a little while after it was 
filled; for, to tell the truth, he was beginning to feel un- 
comfortable at the new view of his conduct presented to him. 
Still, he was not going to let this appear ; so, hfting up his 
head with an indifferent air, he lighted the pipe, blew into it, 
took it out and examined it as if something were wrong 
about it, and until that was put to rights he was unable to 
attend to anything else ; all the while the faithful three who 
hung upon his well-being, gazing, breathless, at his pro- 
ceedings, and anxious for his reply. 

“Eandyvowse ! ” said he at length, “ it were a good job 
it were brenned down, for such a harbour for vermin a never 
seed : t’ rats ran across t’ yard by bunders an’ thousands ; 
an’ it were no man’s property, as a’ve heerd tell, but belonged 
to Chancery, up i’ Lunnon; so where’s t’ harm done, my 
fine felly?” 

Philip was silent. He did not care to brave any further 
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his uncle’s angry frown and contracted eye. If he had only 
known of Daniel Eobson’s part in the riot, before he had left 
the town, he would have taken care to have had better 
authority for the reality of the danger which he had heard 
spoken about, and in which he could not help believing. As 
it was, he could only keep quiet until he had ascertained 
what was the legal peril overhanging the rioters, and how 
far his uncle had been recognised. 

Daniel went on pufi&ng angrily. Kester sighed audibly, 
and then he was sorry he had done so, and began to whistle. 
Bell, full of her new fear, yet desirous to bring all present 
into some kind of harmony, said — 

“It’ll ha’ been a loss to John Hobbs — all his things 
burnt, or trampled on. Mebbe he desarved it all ; but one’s 
a kind o’ tender feeling to one’s tables and chairs, special if 
one’s had t’ bee’s- waxing on ’em.” 

“ A wish he’d been burnt on t’ top on ’em, a do,” growled 
out Daniel, shaking the ash out of his pipe. 

“ Don’t speak so ill o’ thyself,” said his wife. “ Thou’d 
ha’ been t’ first t’ pluck him down, if he’d screeched out.” 

“ An’ a’ll warrant, if they come about wi’ a paper asking 
for feyther’s name to make up for what Hobbs has lost by t’ 
fire, feyther ’ll be for giving him summut,” said Sylvia. 

“ Thou knows nought about it,” said Daniel. “ Hold thy 
tongue next time till thou’s axed to speak, my wench.” 

His sharp irritated way of speaking was so new to Sylvia, 
that the tears sprang to her eyes, and her hp quivered. 
Philip saw it all, and yearned over her. He plunged head- 
long into some other subject, to try and divert attention from 
her ; but Daniel was too ill at ease to talk much, and Bell 
was obliged to try and keep up the semblance of conversa- 
tion, with an occasional word or two from Kester, who 
seemed instinctively to fall into her way of thinking, and to 
endeavour to keep the dark thought in the background. 

Sylvia stole off to bed ; more concerned at her father’s 
angry way of speaking than at the idea of his being amenable 
to law for what he had done ; the one was a sharp present 

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Brief Rejoicing 

evil, the other something distant and unlikely. Yet a dim 
terror of this latter evil hung over her ; and, once upstairs, 
she threw herself on her bed and sobbed. Philip heard her 
where he sate, near the bottom of the short steep staircase ; 
and at every sob the cords of love round his heart seemed 
tightened, and he felt as if he must there and then do some- 
thing to console her. 

But, instead, he sat on talking of nothings, a conversation 
in which Daniel joined with somewhat of surliness, while 
Bell, grave and anxious, kept wistfully looking from one to 
the other, desirous of gleaning some further information on 
the subject which had begun to trouble her mind. She 
hoped some chance would give her the opportunity of 
privately questioning Philip ; but it seemed to be equally her 
husband’s wish to thwart any intention of hers. He re- 
mained in the house-place till after Philip had left, although 
he was evidently so much fatigued as to give some very 
distinct, though unintentional, hints to his visitor to be gone. 

At length the house-door was locked on Philip, and then 
Daniel prepared to go to bed. Kester had left for his loft 
above the shippen, more than an hour before. Bell had still 
to rake the fire, and then she would follow her husband 
upstairs. 

As she was scraping up the ashes, she heard, intermixed 
with the noise she was making, the sound of some one 
rapping gently at the window. In her then frame of mind 
she started a little ; but, on looking round, she saw Kester’s 
face pressed against the glass, and, reassured, she softly 
opened the door. There he stood in the dusk outer air, 
distinct against the grey darkness beyond, and in his hand 
something which she presently perceived was a pitchfork. 

“ Missus ! ” whispered he, “ a’ve watched t’ maister t’ 
bed ; an’ now a’d be greatly beholden to yo’, if yo’d let me just 
lay me down i’ t’ house-place. A’d warrant niver a constable 
i’ a’ Monkshaven should get sight o’ t’ maister, an’ me below 
t’ keep ward.” 

Bell shivered a Uttle. 


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“ Nay, Kester,” said she, patting her hand kindly on his 
shoulder; “there’s nought for t’ fear. Thy master is not 
one for t’ hurt nobody ; and I dunnot think they can harm 
him for setting yon poor chaps free, as t’ gang catched i’ 
their wicked trap.” 

Kester stood still ; then he shook his head slowly. 

“ It’s t’ work at t’ Eandyvowse as a’m af eared on. Some 
folks thinks such a deal o’ a bonfire. Then a may lay me 
down afore t’ fire, missus ? ” said he beseechingly. 

“ Nay, Kester ” — she began ; but, suddenly changing, she 
said, “ God bless thee, my man ; come in and lay thee down 
on t’ settle, and I’ll cover thee up wi’ my cloak as hangs 
behind t’ door. We’re not many on us that love him ; an’ 
we’ll be all on us under one roof, an’ niver a stone wall or a 
lock betwixt us.” 

So Kester took up his rest in the house-place that night, 
and none knew of it besides Bell. 


CHAPTEE XXV 

COMING TROUBLES 

The morning brought more peace, if it did not entirely dissi- 
pate fear. Daniel seemed to have got over his irritability, 
and was unusually kind and tender to wife and daughter, 
especially striving by silent little deeds to make up for the 
sharp words he had said the night before to the latter. 

As if by common consent, all allusion to the Saturday 
night’s proceedings was avoided. They spoke of the day’s 
work before them ; of the crops to be sown ; of the cattle ; 
of the markets ; but each one was conscious of a wish to 
know more distinctly, what were the chances of the danger 
that, to judge from Philip’s words, hung over them falling 
upon them and cutting them off from all these places for the 
coming days. 


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Coming Troubles 

Bell longed to send Kester down into Monkshaven, as a 
sort of spy to see how the land lay; but she dared not 
manifest her anxiety to her husband, and could not see 
Kester alone. She wished that she had told him to go to the 
town, when she had had him to herself in the house-place 
the night before ; now it seemed as though Daniel were 
resolved not to part from him, and as though both had 
forgotten that any peril had been anticipated. Sylvia and 
her mother, in like manner, clung together, not speaking of 
their fears, yet each knowing that it was ever present in the 
other’s mind. 

So things went on till twelve o’clock — dinner-time. If, 
at any time that morning, they had had the courage to speak 
together on the thought which was engrossing all their 
minds, it is possible that some means might have been found 
to avert the calamity that was coming towards them with 
swift feet. But among the uneducated — the partially educated 
— nay, even the weakly educated — the feeling exists which 
prompted the futile experiment of the well-known ostrich. 
They imagine that, by closing their own eyes to apprehended 
evil, they avert it. The expression of fear is supposed to 
accelerate the coming of the thing feared. Yet, on the other 
hand, they shrink from acknowledging the long continuance 
of any blessing, in the idea that, when unusual happiness is 
spoken about, it disappears. So, although perpetual complaints 
of past or present grievances and sorrows are most common 
among this class, they shrink from embodying apprehensions 
for the future in words, as if it then took shape and drew near. 

They all four sate down to dinner ; but not one of them 
was inclined to eat. The food was scarcely touched on their 
plates, yet they were trying to make talk among themselves 
as usual ; they seemed as though they dared not let them- 
selves be silent, when Sylvia, sitting opposite to the window, 
saw Philip at the top of the brow, running rapidly towards 
the farm. She had been so full of the anticipation of some 
kind of misfortune, all the morning, that she felt now as 
if this was the very precursive cucumstance she had been 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

expecting ; she stood up, turning quite white, and, pointing 
with her finger, said — 

“ There he is ! ” 

Every one at table stood up too. An instant afterwards, 
Phihp, breathless, was in the room. 

He gasped out, “ They’re coming ! the warrant is out. 
You must go. I hoped you were gone.” 

“ God help us ! ” said Bell, and sate suddenly down, as 
if she had received a blow that made her collapse into 
helplessness ; but she got up again directly. 

Sylvia flew for her father’s hat. He really seemed the 
most unmoved of the party. 

“ A’m noane afeared,” said he. “ A’d do it o’er again, 
a would ; an’ a’ll tell ’em so. It’s a fine time o’ day when 
men’s to be trapped and carried off, an’ them as lays traps 
to set ’em free is to be put i’ t’ lock-ups for it.” 

“ But there was rioting, besides the rescue ; t’ house was 
burnt,” continued eager, breathless Philip. 

“ An’ a’m noane goin’ t’ say a’m sorry for that, neyther ; 
tho’, mebbe, a wouldn’t do it again.” 

Sylvia had his hat on his head by this time ; and Bell, 
wan and stiff, trembling all over, had his overcoat, and his 
leather purse with the few coins she could muster, ready for 
him to put on. 

He looked at these preparations, at his wife and daughter, 
and his colour changed from its ruddy brown. 

“ A’d face lock-ups, an’ a fair spell o’ jail, but for these,” 
said he, hesitating. 

“ Oh ! ” said Philip, “ for God’s sake, lose no time, but 
be off.” 

“ Where mun he go ? ” asked Bell, as if Philip must 
decide all. 

“ Anywhere, anywhere, out of this house — say Haver- 
stone. This evening. I’ll go and meet him there and plan 
further ; only be off now.” Philip was so keenly eager, he 
hardly took note at the time of Sylvia’s one vivid look of 
unspoken thanks ; yet he remembered it afterwards. 

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Coming Troubles 

“ A’ll dang ’em dead,” said Kester, rushing to the door ; 
for he saw what the others did not— that all chance of 
escape was over; the constables were already at the top 
of the little field-path, not twenty yards off. 

“ Hide him, hide him,” cried Bell, wringing her hands 
in terror; for she, indeed they all, knew that flight would 
now be impossible. Daniel was heavy, rheumatic, and, 
moreover, had been pretty severely bruised on that unlucky 
night. 

Philip, without another word, pushed Daniel before him 
upstairs, feeling that his own presence at Haytersbank Farm, 
at that hour of the day, would be a betrayal. They had just 
time to shut themselves up in the larger bed-room, before 
they heard a scuffle and the constables’ entry downstairs. 

“ They’re in,” said Philip, as Daniel squeezed himself 
under the bed; and then they held quite still, Philip as 
much concealed by the scanty, blue-check curtain as he 
could manage to be. They heard a confusion of voices 
below, a hasty moving of chairs, a banging of doors, a 
further parley, and then a woman’s scream, shrill and pitiful ; 
then steps on the stairs. 

“ That screech spoiled all,” sighed Philip. 

In one instant, the door was opened, and each of the 
hiders was conscious of the presence of the constables ; 
although at first the latter stood motionless, surveying 
the apparently empty room with disappointment. Then 
in another moment they had rushed at Philip’s legs, 
exposed as these were. They drew him out with violence, 
and then let him go. 

“ Measter Hepburn ! ” said one in amaze. But immedi- 
ately they put two and two together ; for in so small a place 
as Monkshaven every one’s relationships and connections, 
and even hkings, were known; and the motive of Philip’s 
coming out to Haytersbank was perfectly clear to these men. 

“ T’ other ’ll not be far off,” said the other constable. 

“ His plate were downstair, full o’ victual ; a seed Measter 
Hepburn a- walking briskly before me, as a left Monkshaven.” 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Here he be, here he be,” called out the other man, 
dragging Daniel out by his legs ; “ we’ve getten him.” 

Daniel kicked violently, and came out from his hiding- 
place in a less ignominious way than by being pulled out by 
his heels. 

He shook himself, and then turned, facing his captors. 

“A wish a’d niver hidden mysel’ ; it were his doing,” 
jerking his thumb towards Philip : “ a’m ready to stand 
by what a’ve done. Yo’ve getten a warrant, a’ll be 
bound ; for them justices is grand at writin’, when t’ fight’s 
over.” 

He was trying to carry it off with bravado ; but Philip 
saw that he had received a shock, from his sudden look of 
withered colour and shrunken feature. 

“ Don’t handcuff him,” said Philip, putting money into 
the constable’s hand. “You’ll be able to guard him well 
enough without them things.” 

Daniel turned round sharp at this whisper. 

“ Let-a-be, let-a-be, my lad,” he said. “ It ’ll be summut 
to think on i’ t’ lock-up, how two abled-bodied fellys were so 
afeared on t’ chap as reskyed them honest sailors o’ Saturday 
neet, as they mun put him i’ gyves, and he sixty- two come 
Martinmas, and sore laid up wi’ t’ rheumatics.” 

But it was difficult to keep up this tone of bravado, when 
he was led a prisoner through his own house-place, and saw 
his poor wife quivering and shaking all over with her efforts 
to keep back all signs of emotion until he was gone; and 
Sylvia standing by her mother, her arm round Bell’s waist, 
and stroking the poor shrunken fingers which worked so 
perpetually and nervously in futile unconscious restlessness. 
Kester was in a corner of the room, sullenly standing. 

Bell quaked from head to foot, as her husband came 
downstairs a prisoner. She opened her lips several times 
with an uneasy motion, as if she would fain say something, 
but knew not what. Sylvia’s passionate swollen lips and 
her beautiful defiant eyes gave her face quite a new aspect ; 
she looked a helpless fury. 


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Coming Troubles 

“ A may kiss my missus, a reckon,” said Daniel, coming 
to a standstill as he passed near her. 

“ Oh, Dannel, Dannel ! ” cried she, opening her arms 
wide to receive him. “ Dannel, Dannel, my rngin ! ” and 
she shook with her crying, laying her head on his shoulder, 
as if he was all her stay and comfort. 

“ Come, missus ! come, missus ! ” said he, “ there couldn’t 
be more ado, if a’d been guilty of murder, an’ yet a say again, 
as a said afore, a’m noane ashamed o’ my doings. Here, 
Sylvie, lass, tak’ thy mother off me, for a cannot do it mysel’, 
it hke sets me off.” His voice was quavering as he said this. 
But he cheered up a little and said, “ Now, good-bye, oud 
wench ” (kissing her), “ and keep a good heart, and let me 
see thee lookin’ lusty and strong, when a come back. Good- 
bye, my lass ; look well after mother, and ask Philip for 
guidance, if it’s needed.” 

He was taken out of his home, and then arose the shrill 
cries of the women ; but in a minute or two they were checked 
by the return of one of the constables, who, cap in hand at 
the sight of so much grief, said — 

“ He wants a word wi’ his daughter.” 

The party had come to a halt about ten yards from the 
house. Sylvia, hastily wiping her tears on her apron, ran 
out and threw her arms round her father, as if to burst out 
afresh on his neck. 

“ Nay, nay, my wench, it’s thee as mun be a comfort to 
mother ; nay, nay — or thou’ll niver hear what a’ve got to say. 
Sylvie, my lass, a’m main and sorry a were so short wi- thee 
last neet ; a ax thy pardon, lass, a were cross to thee, and 
sent thee to thy bed wi’ a sore heart. Thou munnot think 
on it again, but forgie me, now a’m leavin’ thee.” 

“ Oh, feyther ! feyther ! ” was all Sylvia could say ; and at 
last they had to make as though they would have used force 
to separate her from their prisoner. Philip took her hand, 
and softly led her back to her weeping mother. 

For some time, nothing was to be heard in the little farm- 
house kitchen but the sobbing and wailing of the women. 

297 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Philip stood by silent, thinking, as well as he could, for his 
keen sympathy with their grief, what had best be done next. 
Kester, after some growls at Sylvia for having held back the 
uplifted arm which, he thought, might have saved Daniel by a 
well-considered blow on his captors, as they entered the house, 
went back into his shippen — his cell for meditation and con- 
solation, where he might hope to soothe himself before going 
out to his afternoon’s work: labour which his master had 
planned for him that very morning, with a strange foresight, 
as Kester thought ; for the job was one which would take him 
two or three days without needing any further directions than 
those he had received, and by the end of that time he thought 
that his master would be at liberty again. So he — so they 
all thought in their ignorance and inexperience. 

Although Daniel himself was unreasoning, hasty, impul- 
sive — in a word, often thinking and acting very foolishly — 
yet, somehow, either from some quality in his character, or 
from the loyalty of nature in those with whom he had to deal 
in his every-day life, he had made his place and position 
clear as the arbiter and law-giver of his household. On his 
decision, as that of husband, father, master, perhaps superior 
natures waited. So, now that he was gone and had left them 
in such strange new circumstances so suddenly, it seemed 
as though neither Bell nor Sylvia knew exactly what to do 
when their grief was spent : so much had every household 
action and plan been regulated by the thought of him. 
Meanwhile, Philip had slowly been arriving at the conclusion 
that he was more wanted at Monkshaven to look after 
Daniel’s interests, to learn what were the legal probabilities 
in consequence of the old man’s arrest, and to arrange for 
his family accordingly, than standing still and silent in the 
Haytersbank kitchen, too full of fellow-feeling and heavy 
foreboding to comfort, awkwardly unsympathetic in appear- 
ance from the very aching of his heart. 

So, when his aunt, with instinctive sense of regularity and 
propriety, began to put away the scarcely-tasted dinner, and 
Sylvia, blinded with crying, and convulsively sobbing, was 

298 


Coming Troubles 

yet trying to help her mother, Philip took his hat, and, brush- 
ing it round and round with the sleeve of his coat, said — 

“ I think I’ll just go back, and see how matters stand.” 
He had a more distinct plan in his head than these words 
implied ; but it depended on so many contingencies of which 
he was ignorant that he said only these few words; and, 
with a silent resolution to see them again that day, but a 
dread of being compelled to express his fears, so far beyond 
theirs, he went off without saying anything more. Then 
Sylvia lifted up her voice with a great cry. Somehow, she 
had expected him to do something — what, she did not know ; 
but he was gone, and they were left without stay or help. 

“Hush thee, hush thee,” said her mother, trembling all 
over, herself ; “ it’s for the best. The Lord knows.” 

“ But I niver thought he’d leave us,” moaned Sylvia, half 
in her mother’s arms, and thinking of Philip. Her mother 
took the words as applied to Daniel. 

“ And he’d niver ha’ left us, my wench, if he could ha’ 
stayed.” 

“ Oh, mother, mother, it’s Philip as has left us, and he 
could ha’ stayed.” 

“ He’ll come back, or mebbe send. I’ll be bound. Least- 
ways, he’ll be gone to see feyther, and he’U need comfort 
most on all, in a fremd place — in Bridewell — and niver a 
morsel of victual or a piece o’ money.” And now she sate 
down, and wept the dry hot tears that come with such 
difficulty to the eyes of the aged. And so — first one grieving, 
and then the other, and each, draining her own heart of every 
possible hope by way of comfort, alternately trying to cheer 
and console — ^the February afternoon passed away ; the con- 
tinuous rain closing in the daylight even earlier than usual, 
and adding to the dreariness, with the natural accompani- 
ment of wailing winds, coming with long sweeps over the 
moors, and making the sobbings at the windows that always 
sound like the gasps of some one in great agony. Mean- 
while Philip had hastened back to Monkshaven. He had no 
umbrella, he had to face the driving rain for the greater part 

299 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

of the way ; but he was thankful to the weather, for it kept 
men indoors, and he wanted to meet no one, but to have 
time to think and mature his plans. The town itself was, so 
to speak, in mourning. The rescue of the sailors was a dis- 
tinctly popular movement ; the subsequent violence (which 
had, indeed, gone much further than has been described, 
after Daniel left it) was, in general, considered as only a kind 
of due punishment inflicted in wild justice ’on the press-gang 
and their abettors. The feeling of the Monkshaven people 
was, therefore, in decided opposition to the vigorous steps 
taken by the county magistrates, who, in consequence of an 
appeal from the naval officers in charge of the impressment 
service, had called out the militia (from a distant and inland 
county), stationed within a few miles, and had thus summarily 
quenched the riots that were continuing on the Sunday 
morning after a somewhat languid fashion ; the greater part 
of the destruction of property having been accomplished 
during the previous night. Still, there was little doubt but 
that the violence would have been renewed, as evening drew 
on, and the more desperate part of the population and the 
enraged sailors had had the Sabbath leisure to brood over 
their wrongs, and to encourage each other in a passionate 
attempt at redress, or revenge. So the authorities were quite 
justified in the decided steps they had taken, both in their 
own estimation then, and now, in ours, looking back on the 
affair in cold blood. But, at the time, feeling ran strongly 
against them; and all means of expressing itself in action 
being prevented, men brooded sullenly in their own houses. 
Philip, as the representative of the family, the head of which 
was now suffering for his deeds in the popular cause, would 
have met with more sympathy, ay, and more respect than he 
imagined, as he went along the streets, glancing from side to 
side, fearful of meeting some who would shy at him as the 
relation of one who had been ignominiously taken to Bride- 
well a few hours before. But, in spite of this wincing of 
Philip’s from observation and remark, he never dreamed of 
acting otherwise than as became a brave, true friend. And 

3CO 


Coming Troubles 

this he did, and would have done, from a natural faith- 
fulness and constancy of disposition, without any special 
regard for Sylvia. 

He knew his services were needed in the shop ;• business, 
which he had left at a moment’s warning, awaited him 
unfinished ; but, at this time, he could not bear the torture 
of giving explanations, and alleging reasons to the languid 
intelligence and slow sympathies of Coulson. 

He went to the ofi&ces of Mr. Donkin, the oldest-estab- 
lished and most respected attorney in Monkshaven — he who 
had been employed to draw up the law-papers and deeds of 
partnership consequent on Hepburn and Coulson succeeding 
to the shop of John and Jeremiah Foster, Brothers. 

Mr. Donkin knew Philip from this circumstance. But, 
indeed, nearly every one in Monkshaven knew each other — 
if not enough to speak to, at least enough to be acquainted 
with the personal appearance and reputation of most of those 
whom they met in the streets. It so happened that Mr. 
Donkin had a favourable opinion of Philip ; and, perhaps for 
this reason, the latter had a shorter time to wait, before he 
obtained an interview with the head of the house, than many 
of the clients who came for that purpose from town or 
country for many miles round. 

Philip was ushered in. Mr. Donkin sate with his 
spectacles pushed up on his forehead, ready to watch his 
countenance and listen to his words. 

“ Good afternoon, Mr. Hepburn ! ” 

“ Good afternoon, sir.” Phihp hesitated how to begin. 
Mr. Donkin became impatient, and tapped with the fingers of 
his left hand on his desk. Philip's sensitive nerves felt and 
rightly interpreted the action. 

“ Please, sir, I’ve come to speak to you about Daniel 
Eobson, of Haytersbank Farm.” 

“ Daniel Eobson ? ” said Mr. Donkin, after a short pause, 
to try and compel Philip into speed in his story. 

“ Yes, sir. He’s been taken up on account of this affair, 
sir, about the press-gang on Saturday night.” 

301 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ To be sure ! I thought I knew the name.” And Mr. 
Donkin’s face became graver, and the expression more con- 
centrated. Looking up suddenly at Philip, he said, “ You 
are aware that I am the clerk to the magistrates ? ” 

“No, sir,” in a tone that indicated the unexpressed 
“ What then ? ” 

“ Well, but I am. And so of course, if you want my services 
or advice in favour of a prisoner whom they have committed, 
or are going to commit, you can’t have them ; that’s all.” 

“ I am very sorry — ^very ! ” said Philip ; and then he was 
again silent for a period; long enough to make the busy 
attorney impatient. 

“ Well, Mr. Hepburn, have you anything else to say to 
me?” 

“ Yes, sir. I’ve a deal to ask of you ; for, you see, I don’t 
rightly understand what to do ; and yet I’m all as Daniel’s 
wife and daughter has to look to ; and I’ve their grief heavy 
on my heart. You could not tell me what is to be done with 
Daniel, could you, sir ? ” 

“ He’ll be brought up before the magistrates to-morrow 
morning for final examination, along with the others, you 
know, before he’s sent to York Castle, to take his trial at the 
spring assizes.” 

“ To York Castle, sir ? ” 

Mr. Donkin nodded, as if words were too precious to waste. 

“ And when will he go ? ” asked poor Philip in dismay. 

“ To-morrow : most probably as soon as the examination 
is over. The evidence is clear as to his being present, aiding 
and abetting, — indicted on the 4th section of 1 George I., 
statute 1, chapter 5. I’m afraid it’s a bad look-out. Is he a 
friend of yours, Mr. Hepburn ? ” 

“ Only an uncle, sir,” said Philip, his heart getting full; 
more from Mr. Donkin’s manner than from his words. “ But 
what can they do to him, sir ? ” 

“ Do ? ” Mr. Donkin half-smiled at the ignorance dis- 
played. “ Why, hang him, to be sure ; if the judge is in a 
hanging mood. He’s been either a principal in the offence, 

302 


Coming Troubles 

or a principal in the second degree, and, as such, liable to 
the full punishment. I drew up the warrant myself this 
morning ; though I left the exact name to be filled in by my 
clerk.” 

“Oh, sir! can you do nothing for me?” asked Philip, 
with sharp beseeching in his voice. He had never imagined 
that it was a capital offence ; and the thought of his aunt’s 
and Sylvia’s ignorance of the possible fate awaiting him 
whom they so much loved was like a stab to his heart. 

“ No, my good fellow. I’m sorry ; but, you see, it’s my 
duty to do all I can to bring criminals to justice.” 

“ My uncle thought he was doing such a fine deed.” 

“ Demolishing and pulling down, destroying and burning 
dwelhng-houses and outhouses,” said Mr. Donkin. “ He 
must have some peculiar notions.” 

“ The people is so mad with the press-gang ; and Daniel 
has been at sea hisself ; and took it so to heart, when he 
heard of mariners and sea-faring folk being carried off; and 
was just cheated into doing what was kind and helpful — 
leastways, what would have been kind and helpful, if there 
had been a fire. I’m against violence and riots myself, sir, 
I’m sure ; but I cannot help thinking as Daniel had a deal 
to justify him on Saturday night, sir.” 

“ Well ; you must try and get a good lawyer to bring 
out all that side of the question. There’s a good deal to be 
said on it; but it’s my duty to get up all the evidence to 
prove that he and others were present on the night in 
question ; so, as you’ll perceive, I can give you no help in 
defending him.” 

“ But who can, sir ? I came to you as a friend who, I 
thought, would see me through it. And I don’t know any 
other lawyer; leastways, to speak to.” 

Mr. Donkin was really more concerned for the misguided 
rioters than he was aware ; and he was aware of more 
interest than he cared to express. So he softened his tone a 
little, and tried to give the best advice in his power. 

“ You’d better go to Edward Dawson, on the other side of 

303 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

the river — he that was articled clerk with me two years ago, 
you know. He’s a clever fellow, and has not too much 
practice ; he’ll do the best he can for you. He’ll have to be 
at the court-house, tell him, to-morrow morning at ten, when 
the justices meet. He’ll watch the case for you ; and then 
he’ll give you his opinion, and tell you what to do. You 
can’t do better than follow his advice. I must do all I can 
to collect evidence for a conviction, you know.” 

Philip stood up, looked at his hat, and then came forward 
and laid down six and eightpence on the desk in a blushing, 
awkward way. 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! ” said Mr. Donkin, pushing the money 
away. “ Don’t be a fool ; you’ll need it all before the trial’s 
over. I’ve done nothing, man. It would be a pretty thing 
for me to be fee’d by both parties ! ” 

Philip took up the money, and left the room. In an 
instant, he came back again, glanced furtively at Mr. 
Donkin’s face, and then, once more having recourse to 
brushing his hat, he said in a low voice — 

“ You’ll not be hard upon him, sir, I hope ? ” 

“ I must do my duty,” replied Mr. Donkin, a little 
sternly, “ without any question of hardness.” 

Phihp, discomfited, left the room ; an instant of thought, 
and Mr. Donkin had jumped up, and, hastening to the door, 
he opened it and called after Philip — 

“ Hepburn— Hepburn — I say, he’ll be taken to York, as 
soon as may be, to-morrow morning ; if any one wants to see 
him before then, they’d better look sharp about it.” 

Philip went quickly along the streets towards Mr. 
Dawson’s, pondering upon the meaning of all that he had 
heard, and what he had better do. He had made his plans 
pretty clearly out by the time he arrived at Mr. Dawson’s 
smart door, in one of the new streets on the other side of the 
river. A clerk, as smart as the door, answered Philip’s hesi- 
tating knock, and replied to his inquiry as to whether Mr. 
Dawson was at home, in the negative; adding, after a 
moment’s pause — 


304 


Coming Troubles 

“ He’ll be at home in less than an hour ; he’s only gone 
to make Mrs. Dawson’s will — Mrs. Dawson, of Collyton — 
she’s not expected to get better.” 

Probably the clerk of an older- established attorney would 
not have given so many particulars as to the nature of his 
master’s employment ; but, as it happened that it was of no 
consequence, the unnecessary information made no impres- 
sion on Philip’s mind ; he thought the matter over, and then 
said — 

“ I’ll be back in an hour, then. It’s gone a quarter to 
four; I’ll be back before five, tell Mr. Dawson.” 

He turned on his heel and went back to the High Street as 
fast as he could, with a far more prompt and decided step than 
before. He hastened through the streets, emptied by the 
bad weather, to the principal inn of the town, the George — 
the sign of which was fastened to a piece of wood stretched 
across the narrow street ; and, going up to the bar with some 
timidity (for the inn was frequented by the gentry of Monks- 
haven and the neighbourhood, and was considered a touch 
above such customers as Philip), he asked if he could have a 
tax-cart made ready in a quarter of an hour, and sent up to 
the door of his shop. 

“ To be sure he could ; how far was it to go ? ” 

Philip hesitated before he replied — 

“Up the Knotting Lane, to the stile leading down to 
Haytersbank Farm ; they’ll have to wait there for some as 
are coming.” 

“ They must not wait long such an evening as this ; stand- 
ing in such rain and wind as there’ll be up there is enough to 
kill a horse.” 

“ They shan’t wait long,” said Philip, decisively ; “in a 
quarter of an hour, mind.” 

He now went back to the shop, beating against the storm, 
which was increasing as the tide came in and the night hours 
approached. 

Coulson had no word for him ; but he looked reproachfully 
at his partner for his long, unexplained absence. Hester was 

305 X 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

putting away the ribbons and handkerchiefs, and bright- 
coloured things which had been used to deck the window ; 
for no more customers were likely to come this night, through 
the blustering weather, to a shop dimly lighted by two tallow 
candles and an inefficient oil-lamp. Philip came up to her, 
and stood looking at her with unseeing eyes ; but the strange 
consciousness of his fixed stare made her uncomfortable, and 
called the faint flush to her pale cheeks, and at length com- 
pelled her, as it were, to speak, and break the spell of the 
silence. So, curiously enough, all three spoke at once. 
Hester asked (without looking at Philip) — 

“ Yo’re sadly wet, I’m feared ? ” 

Coulson said — 

“ Thou might have a bit o’ news to tell one, after being 
on the gad all afternoon.” 

Philip whispered to Hester — 

“ Wilt come into t’ parlour ? I want a word wi’ thee by 
oursel’s.” 

Hester quietly finished rolling up the ribbon she had in her 
hands when he spoke, and then followed him into the room 
behind the shop before spoken of. 

Philip set down on the table the candle which he had 
brought out of the shop, and, turning round to Hester, took 
her trembling hand into both of his, and gripping it nervously, 
said — 

“ Oh ! Hester, thou must help me— thou will, will not 
thou?” 

Hester gulped down something that seemed to rise in her 
throat and choke her, before she answered. 

“ Anything, thou knows, Philip.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know. Thou sees the matter is this : Daniel 
Eobson — he who married my aunt — is taken up for yon riot 
on Saturday night at t’ Mariners’ Arms ” 

“ They spoke on it this afternoon ; they said the warrant 
was out,” said Hester, filling up the sentence as Philip 
hesitated, lost for an instant in his own thoughts. 

“ Ay ! the warrant is out, and he’s in t’ lock-up, and will 
306 


Coming Troubles 

be carried to York Castle to-morrow morn ; and I’m afeard it 
will go bad with him ; and they at Haytersbank is not 
prepared, and they must see him again before he goes. Now, 
Hester, will thou go in a tax-cart as will be here, in less than 
ten minutes, from t’ George, and bring them back here, and 
they must stay all night, for to be ready to see him to-morrow 
before he goes ? It’s dree weather for them, but they’ll not 
mind that.” 

He had used words as if he was making a request to 
Hester; but he did not seem to await her answer, so sure 
was he that she would go. She noticed this, and noticed 
also that the rain was spoken of in reference to them, not to 
her. A cold shadow passed over her heart, though it was 
nothing more than she already knew — that Sylvia was the 
one centre of his thoughts and his love. 

“ I’ll go put on my things at once,” said she gently. 

Philip pressed her hand tenderly; a glow of gratitude 
overspread him. 

“ Thou’s a real good one, God bless thee ! ” said he. 
“ Thou must take care of thyself, too,” continued he ; 
“ there’s wraps and plenty i’ th’ house, and if there are not, 
there’s those i’ the shop as ’ll be none the worse for once 
wearing at such a time as this ; and wrap thee well up, and 
take shawls and cloaks for them, and mind as they put ’em 
on. Thou’ll have to get out at a stile. I’ll tell t’ driver 
where ; and thou must get over t’ stile and follow t’ path 
down two fields, and th’ house is right before ye, and bid 
’em make haste and lock up th’ house, for they mun stay 
all night here. Kester ’ll look after things.” 

All this time Hester was hastily putting on her hat and 
cloak, which she had fetched from the closet where they 
usually hung through the day ; now she stood listening, as 
it were, for final directions. 

“ But suppose they will not come ? ” said she ; “ they 
dunnot know me, and mayn’t believe my words.” 

“ They must,” said he impatiently. “ They don’t know 
wbati awaits ’em,” he continued. “ I’ll tell thee, because 

307 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

thou ’ll not let out, and it seems as if I mun tell some one — 
it were such a shock — he’s to be tried for ’s life. They know 
not it’s so serious; and, Hester,” said he, going on in his 
search after sympathy, “ she’s like as if she was bound up 
in her father.” 

His lips quivered, as he looked wistfully into Hester’s 
face at these words. No need to tell her who she was. No 
need to put into words the fact, told plainer than words 
could have spoken it, that his heart was bound up in 
Sylvia. 

Hester’s face, instead of responding to his look, con- 
tracted a little, and, for the life of her, she could not have 
helped saying — 

“ Why don’t yo’ go yourself, Philip ? ” 

“ I can’t, I can’t,” said he, impatiently. “ I’d give the 
world to go, for I might be able to comfort her ; but there’s 
lawyers to see, and iver so much to do, and they’ve niver a 
man-friend but me to do it all. Yo’ll tell her,” said Philip 
insinuatingly, as if a fresh thought had struck him, “ as how 
I would ha’ come. I would fain ha’ come for ’em, myself ; 
but I couldn’t, because of th’ lawyer, — mind yo’ say because 
of th’ lawyer. I’d be loath for her to think I was minding 
any business of my own at this time ; and, whatever yo’ do, 
speak hopeful, and, for t’ life of yo’, don’t speak of th’ 
hanging, it’s likely it’s a mistake o’ Donkin’s ; and anyhow 
— there’s t’ cart — anyhow I should perhaps not ha" tolled 
thee ; but it’s a comfort to make a clean breast to a friend at 
times. God bless thee, Hester. I don’t know what I should 
ha’ done without thee,” said he, as he wrapped her well up 
in the cart, and placed the bundles of cloaks and things by 
her side. 

Along the street, in the jolting cart, as long as Hester 
could see the misty light streaming out of the shop-door, so 
long was Philip standing bareheaded in the rain looking 
after her. But she knew that it was not her own poor self 
that attracted his lingering gaze. It was the thought of the 
person she was bound to. 


308 


A Dreary Vigil 


CHAPTEE XXVI 

A DREARY VIGIL 

Through the dark rain, against the cold wind, shaken over 
the rough stones, went Hester in the little tax-cart. Her 
heart kept rising against her fate ; the hot tears came un- 
bidden to her eyes. But rebellious heart was soothed, and 
hot tears were sent back to their source, before the time came 
for her alighting. 

The driver turned his horse in the narrow lane, and 
shouted after her an injunction to make haste, as, with her 
head bent low, she struggled down to the path to Hayters- 
bank Farm. She saw the light in the window, from the top 
of the brow ; and involuntarily she slackened her pace. She 
had never seen Bell Eobson, and would Sylvia recollect her ? 
If she did not, how awkward it would be to give the explana- 
tion of who she was, and what her errand was, and why she 
was sent ! Nevertheless, it must be done ; so on she went, 
and standing within the little porch, she knocked faintly at 
the door ; but, in the bluster of the elements, the sound was 
lost. Again she knocked, and now the murmur of women’s 
voices inside was hushed, and some one came quickly to the 
door, and opened it sharply. 

It was Sylvia. Although her face was completely in 
shadow, of course Hester knew her well ; but she, if indeed 
she would have recognised Hester less disguised, did not 
know in the least who the woman, muffled up in a great 
cloak, with her hat tied down with a silk handkerchief, stand- 
ing in the porch at this time of night, could be. Nor, 
indeed, was she in a mood to care or to inquire. She said 
hastily, in a voice rendered hoarse and arid with grief— 

“ Go away. This is no house for strangers to come to. 
We’ve enough on our own to think on ; ” and she hastily 
shut the door in Hester’s face, before the latter could put 

309 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

together the right words in which to explain her errand. 
Hester stood outside in the dark, wet porch, discomfited, and 
wondering how next to obtain a hearing through the shut 
and bolted door. Not long did she stand, however; some 
one was again at the door, talking in a voice of distress and 
remonstrance, and slowly unbarring the bolts. A tall, thin 
figure of an elderly woman was seen against the warm fire- 
light inside as soon as the door was opened ; a hand was put 
out, like that which took the dove into the ark, and Hester 
was drawn into the warmth and the light, while Bell’s voice 
went on speaking to Sylvia, before addressing the dripping 
stranger — 

“It’s not a night to turn a dog fra’ t’ door; it’s ill 
letting our grief harden our hearts. But oh! missus (to 
Hester), yo’ mun forgive us, for a great sorrow has fallen 
upon us this day, an’ we’re like beside ourselves wi’ tjrying 
an’ plaining.” 

Bell sate down, and threw her apron over her poor worn 
face, as if decently to shield the signs of her misery from a 
stranger’s gaze. Sylvia, all tear-swollen, and looking askance 
and almost fiercely at the stranger who had made good her 
intrusion, was drawn, as it were, to her mother’s side, and, 
kneeling down by her, put her arms round her waist, and 
almost lay across her lap ; still gazing at Hester with cold, 
distrustful eyes, the expression of which repelled and daunted 
that poor, unwilling messenger, and made her silent for a 
minute or so after her entrance. Bell suddenly put down 
her apron. 

“ Yo’re cold and drenched,” said she. “ Come near to t’ 
fire and warm yo’rsel’ ; yo’ mun pardon us, if we dunnot 
think on everything at onest.” 

“Yo’re very kind, very kind indeed,” said Hester, touched 
by the poor woman’s evident effort to forget her own grief in 
the duties of hospitality, and loving Bell from that moment. 

“ I’m Hester Eose,” she continued, half addressing Sylvia, 
who she thought might remember the name, “ and Philip 
Hepburn has sent me in a tax-cart to t’ stile yonder, to fetch 

310 


A Dreary Vigil 

both on yo’ back to Monkshaven.” Sylvia raised her head, 
and looked intently at Hester. Bell clasped her hands tight 
together, and leant forwards. 

“It’s my master as wants us ? “ said she, in an eager, 
questioning tone. 

“ It’s for to see yo’r master,” said Hester. “ Philip says 
he’ll be sent to York to-morrow, and yo’ll be fain to see him 
before he goes ; and if yo’ll come down to Monkshaven to- 
night, yo’ll be on t’ spot again’ the time comes when t’ 
justices will let ye.” 

Bell was up and about, making for the place where she 
kept her out-going things, almost before Hester had begun 
to speak. She hardly understood about her husband’s being 
sent to York, in the possession of the idea that she might go 
and see him. She did not understand or care how, in this 
wild Aight, she was to get to Monkshaven ; all she thought 
of was, that she might go and see her husband. But Sylvia 
took in more points than her mother, and, almost suspiciously, 
began to question Hester — 

“ Why are they sending him to York ? What made Philip 
leave us ? Why didn’t he come hissel’ ? ” 

“ He couldn’t come hissel’, he bade me say; because he 
was bound to be at the lawyer’s at five, about yo’r father’s 
business. I think yo’ might ha’ known he would ha’ come 
for any business of his own ; and, about York, it’s Philip as 
tolled me, and I never asked why. I never thought on yo’r 
asking me so many questions. I thought yo’d be ready to 
fly on any chance o’ seeing your father.” Hester spoke out 
the sad reproach that ran from her heart to her lips. To 
distrust Philip ! to linger, when she might hasten ! 

“ Oh ! ” said Sylvia, breaking out into a wild cry, that 
carried with it more conviction of agony than much weeping 
could have done. “ I may be rude and hard, and I may ask 
strange questions, as if I cared for t’ answers yo’ may gi’ me ; 
but, in my heart o’ hearts, I care for nought but to have 
father back wi’ us, as love him so dear. I can hardly tell 
what I say, much less why I say it. Mother is so patient, it 

311 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

puts me past mysel’, for I could fight wi’ t’ very walls, I’m 
so mad wi’ grieving. Sure, they’ll let him come back wi’ 
us to-morrow, when they hear from his own sel’ why he 
did it ? ” 

She looked eagerly at Hester for an answer to this last 
question, which she had put in a soft, entreating tone, as if 
with Hester herself the decision rested. Hester shook her 
head. Sylvia came up to her and took her hands, almost 
fondling them. 

“ Yo’ dunnot think they’ll be hard wi’ him, when they hear 
all about it, done yo’ ? Why, York Castle’s t’ place they send 
a’ t’ thieves and robbers to ; not honest men like feyther.” 

Hester put her hand on Sylvia’s shoulder with a soft, 
caressing gesture. 

“ Philip will know,” she said, using Philip’s name as a 
kind of spell — it would have been so to her. “ Come away 
to Philip,” said she again, urging Sylvia, by her looks and 
manner, to prepare for the little journey. Sylvia moved away 
for this purpose, saying to herself — 

“ It’s going to see feyther : he will tell me all.” 

Poor Mrs. Robson was collecting a few clothes for her 
husband with an eager, trembling hand, so trembling that 
article after article fell to the floor, and it was Hester who 
picked them up ; and at last, after many vain attempts by 
the grief-shaken woman, it was Hester who tied the bundle, 
and arranged the cloak, and fastened down the hood ; Sylvia 
standing by, not unobservant, though apparently absorbed in 
her own thoughts. 

At length, all was arranged, and the key given over to 
Kester. As they passed out into the storm, Sylvia said to 
Hester — 

“ Thou’s a real good wench. Thou’s fitter to be about 
mother than me. I’m but a cross-patch at best ; an’ now it’s 
like as if I was no good to nobody.” 

Sylvia began to cry ; but Hester had no time to attend to 
her, even had she the inclination : all her care was needed to 
help the hasty, tottering steps of the wife, who was feebly 

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A Dreary Vigil 

speeding up the wet and slippery brow to her husband. All 
Bell thought of was that “ he ” was at the end of her toil. 
She hardly understood when she was to see him ; her weary 
heart and brain had only received one idea — that each step 
she was now taking was leading her to him. Tired and 
exhausted with her quick walk up-hill, battling all the way 
with wind and rain, she could hardly have held up another 
minute when they reached the tax-cart in the lane, and 
Hester had almost to lift her on to the front seat by the 
driver. She covered and wrapped up the poor old woman, 
and afterwards placed herself in the straw at the back of the 
cart, packed up close by the shivering, weeping Sylvia. 
Neither of them spoke a word at first ; but Hester’s tender 
conscience smote her for her silence, before they had reached 
Monkshaven. She wanted to say some kind word to Sylvia, 
and yet knew not how to begin. Somehow, without knowing 
why, or reasoning upon it, she hit upon Philip’s message as 
the best comfort in her power to give. She had delivered it 
before ; but it had been apparently httle heeded. 

“ Philip bade me say it was business as kept him from 
fetchin’ yo’ hissel’ — business wi’ the lawyer, about— about 
yo’r father.” 

“ What do they say ? ” said Sylvia suddenly, lifting her 
bowed head, as though she would read her companion’s face 
in the dim light. 

“ I dunnot know,” said Hester sadly. They were now 
jolting over the paved streets, and not a word could be 
spoken. They were now at Philip’s door, which was opened 
to receive them even before they arrived, as if some one had 
been watching and listening. The old servant, Phoebe, the 
fixture in the house, who had belonged to it and to the shop 
for the last twenty years, came out, holding a candle and 
sheltering it in her hand from the weather; while Philip 
helped the tottering steps of Mrs. Eobson as she descended 
behind. As Hester had got in last, so she had now to be 
the first to move. Just as she was moving, Sylvia’s cold 
little hand was laid on her arm. 

313 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ I am main and thankful to yo’. I ask yo’r pardon for 
speaking cross; but, indeed, my heart’s a’most broken wi’ 
fear about feyther.” 

The voice was so plaintive, so full of tears, that Hester 
could not but yearn towards the speaker. She bent over and 
kissed her cheek, and then clambered, unaided, down by the 
wheel on the dark side of the cart. Wistfully she longed for 
one word of thanks or recognition from Philip, in whose 
service she had performed this hard task, but he was other- 
wise occupied ; and, on casting a further glance back as she 
turned the corner of the street, she saw Philip lifting Sylvia 
carefully down in his arms from her footing on the top of 
the wheel; and then they all went into the light and the 
warmth, the door was shut, the lightened cart drove briskly 
away; and Hester, in rain, and cold, and darkness, went 
homewards with her tired, sad heart. 

Philip had done all he could, since his return from lawyer 
Dawson’s, to make his house bright and warm for the re- 
ception of his beloved. He had a strong apprehension of 
the probable fate of poor Daniel Eobson; he had a warm 
sympathy with the miserable distress of the wife and 
daughter ; but still, at the back of his mind, his spirits danced, 
as if this was to them a festal occasion. He had even taken 
unconscious pleasure in Phoebe’s suspicious looks and tones, 
as he had hurried and superintended her in her operations. 
A fire blazed cheerily in the parlour, almost dazzling to the 
travellers brought in from the darkness and the rain ; candles 
burned — two candles, much to Phoebe’s discontent. Poor 
Bell Eobson had to sit down, almost as soon as she entered 
the room, so worn out was she with fatigue and excitement ; 
yet she grudged every moment which separated her, as she 
thought, from her husband. 

“ I’m ready now,” said she, standing up, and rather 
repulsing Sylvia’s cares ; “ I’m ready now,” said she, looking 
eagerly at Philip, as if for him to lead the way. 

“ It’s not to-night,” replied he almost apologetically. 
“ You can’t see him to-night ; it’s to-morrow morning, before 

314 


A Dreary Vigil 

he goes to York j it was better for yo’ to be down here in 
town ready ; and, beside, I didn’t know, when I sent for ye, 
that he was locked up for the night.” 

“ Well-a-day, well-a-day,” said Bell, rocking herself back- 
wards and forwards, and trying to soothe herself with these 
words. Suddenly she said — 

“ But I’ve brought his comforter wi’ me — his red woollen 
comforter, as he’s allays slept in this twelvemonth past ; he’ll 
get his rheumatiz again; oh, Philip, cannot I get it to 
him ? ” 

“ I’ll send it by Phoebe,” said Philip, who was busy 
making tea, hospitable and awkward. 

“ Cannot I take it mysel’ ? ” repeated Bell. “ I could 
make surer nor anybody else ; they’d maybe not mind yon 
woman — Phoebe d’ye call her ? ” 

“ Nay, mother,” said Sylvia, “ thou’s not fit to go.” 

“ Shall I go ? ” asked Philip, hoping she would say “ no,” 
and be content with Phoebe, and leave him where he was. 

“ Oh, Philip, would yo’ ? ” said Sylvia, turning round. 

“ Ay,” said Bell, “ if thou would take it, they’d be mind- 
ing yo’.” 

So there was nothing for it but for him to go, in the first 
flush of his delightful rites of hospitality. 

“It’s not far,” said he, consoling himself rather than 
them. “ I’ll be back in ten minutes, the tea is maskit, and 
Phoebe will take yo’r wet things and dry ’em by ’t kitchen 
fire ; and here’s the stairs,” opening a door in the corner of 
the room, from which the stairs immediately ascended. 
“ There’s two rooms at the top ; that to t’ left is all made 
ready, t’ other is mine,” said he, reddening a little as he 
spoke. Bell was busy undoing her bundle with trembling 
fingers. 

“Here,” said she; “and oh, lad, here’s a bit o’ pepper- 
mint-cake ; he’s main and fond on it, and I catched sight on 
it, by good luck, just t’ last minute.” 

Philip was gone, and the excitement of Bell and Sylvia 
flagged once more, and sank into wondering despondency. 

315 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Sylvia, however, roused herself enough to take off her 
mother’s wet clothes, and she took them timidly into the 
kitchen, and arranged them before Phoebe’s fire. 

Phoebe opened her lips once or twice to speak in remon- 
strance, and then, with an effort gulped her words down ; 
for her sympathy, like that of all the rest of the Monkshaven 
world, was in favour of Daniel Robson ; and his daughter 
might place her dripping cloak this night wherever she 
would, for Phoebe. 

Sylvia found her mother still sitting on the chair next 
the door, where she had first placed herself on entering the 
room. 

“ I’ll gi’e yo’ some tea, mother,” said she, struck with the 
shrunken look of Bell’s face. 

“ No, no,” said her mother. “ It’s not manners for t’ 
help oursel’s.” 

“I’m sure Philip would ha’ wished yo’ for to take it,” 
said Sylvia, pouring out a cup. 

Just then he returned, and something in his look, some 
dumb expression of delight at her occupation, made her 
blush and hesitate for an instant; but then she went on, 
and made a cup of tea ready, saying something a little in- 
coherent all the time about her mother’s need of it. After 
tea. Bell Robson’s weariness became so extreme, that Philip 
and Sylvia urged her to go to bed. She resisted a little, 
partly out of “manners,” and partly because she kept 
fancying, poor woman, that somehow or other her husband 
might send for her. But, about seven o’clock, Sylvia per- 
suaded her to come upstairs. Sylvia, too, bade Philip good- 
night, and his look followed the last wave of her dress as she 
disappeared up the stairs ; then, leaning his chin on his hand, 
he gazed at vacancy and thought deeply — for how long he 
knew not, so intent was his mind on the chances of futurity. 

He was aroused by Sylvia’s coming downstairs into the 
sitting-room again. He started up. 

“ Mother is so shivery,” said she. “ May I go in there,” 
indicating the kitchen, “ and make her a drop of gruel ? ” 

316 


A Dreary Vigil 

“Phoebe shall make it, not you,” said Philip, eagerly 
preventing her, by going to the kitchen-door and giving his 
orders. When he turned round again, Sylvia was standing 
over the fire, leaning her head against the stone mantel-piece 
for the comparative coolness. She did not speak at first, or 
take any notice of him. He watched her furtively, and saw 
that she was crying, the tears running down her cheeks, and 
she too much absorbed in her thoughts to wipe them away 
with her apron. 

While he was turning over in his mind what he could 
best say to comfort her (his heart, like hers, being almost 
too full for words), she suddenly looked him full in the face, 
saying— 

“ Philip ! won’t they soon let him go ? what can they do 
to him ? ” Her open lips trembled, while awaiting his answer ; 
the tears came up and filled her eyes. It was just the ques- 
tion he had most dreaded ; it led to the terror that possessed 
his own mind, but which he had hoped to keep out of hers. 
He hesitated. “ Speak, lad ! ” said she impatiently, with a 
little passionate gesture. “ I can see thou knows ! ” 

He had only made it worse by consideration ; he rushed 
blindfold at a reply. 

“ He’s ta’en up for felony.” 

“Felony!” said she. “There thou’re out; he’s in for 
letting yon men out ; thou may call it rioting if thou’s a 
mind to set folks again’ him ; but it’s too bad to cast such 
hard words at him as yon — felony 1 ” she repeated in a half- 
offended tone. 

“Its what the lawyers call it,” said Philip sadly; “it’s 
no word o’ mine.” 

“ Lawyers is allays for making the worst o’ things,” said 
she, a little pacified ; “ but folks shouldn’t allays believe 
them.” 

“ It’s lawyers as has to judge i’ t’ long run.” 

“ Cannot the justices, Mr. Harter and them as is no 
lawyers, give him a sentence to-morrow, wi’out sending him 
to York ? ” 


317 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ No ! ” said Philip, shaking his head. He went to the 
kitchen-door and asked if the gruel was not ready, so anxious 
was he to stop the conversation at this point ; but Phoebe, 
who held her young master in but little respect, scolded him 
for a stupid man, who thought, like all his sex, that gruel 
was to be made in a minute, whatever the fire was, and 
bade him come and make it for himself, if he was in such a 
hurry. 

He had to return discomfited to Sylvia, who, meanwhile, 
had arranged her thoughts, ready to return to the charge. 

“ And say he’s sent to York, and say he’s tried theere : 
what’s t’ worst they can do again’ him ? ” asked she, keeping 
down her agitation, to look at Philip the more sharply. Her 
eyes never slackened their penetrating gaze at his counte- 
nance, until he replied, with the utmost unwillingness, and 
most apparent confusion — 

“ They may send him to Botany Bay.” 

He knew that he held back a worse contingency, and he 
was mortally afraid that she would perceive this reserve. 
But what he did say was so much beyond her utmost 
apprehension, which had only reached to various terms of 
imprisonment, that she did not imagine the dark shadow 
lurking behind. What he had said was too much for her. 
Her eyes dilated, her lips blanched, her pale cheeks grew yet 
paler. After a minute’s look into his face, as if fascinated by 
some horror, she stumbled backwards into the chair in the 
chimney corner, and covered her face with her hands, moan- 
ing out some inarticulate words. 

Philip was on his knees by her, dumb from excess of 
sympathy, kissing her dress, all unfelt by her ; he murmured 
half-words, he began passionate sentences that died away 
upon his lips ; and she — she thought of nothing but her 
father, and was possessed and rapt out of herself by the dread 
of losing him to that fearful country which was almost like 
the grave to her, so all but impassable was the gulf. But 
Philip knew that it was possible that the separation impend- 
ing might be that of the dark, mysterious grave — that the 

318 


A Dreary Vigil 

gulf between the father and child might indeed be that which 
no living, breathing, warm human creature can ever cross. 

“ Sylvie, Sylvie ! ” said he — and all their conversation 
had to be carried on in low tones and whispers, for fear of 
the listening ears above — “ don’t — don’t ; thou’rt rending my 
heart. Oh, Sylvie, hearken! There’s not a thing I’ll not 
do ; there’s not a penny I’ve got — th’ last drop of blood that’s 
in me — I’ll give up my life for his.” 

“ Life ? ” said she, putting down her hands, and looking at 
him as if her looks could pierce his soul ; “ who talks o’ 
touching his life ? Thou’re going crazy, Philip, I think ; ” 
but she did not think so, although she would fain have 
beUeved it. In her keen agony, she read his thoughts as 
though they were an open page ; she sate there, upright and 
stony, the conviction creeping over her face, like the grey 
shadow of death. No more tears, no more trembling ; almost 
no more breathing. He could not bear to see her, and yet 
she held his eyes, and he feared to make the effort necessary 
to move or to turn away, lest the shunning motion should 
carry conviction to her heart. Alas ! conviction of the 
probable danger to her father’s life was already there : it was 
that that was calming her down, tightening her muscles, 
bracing her nerves. In that hour she lost all her early youth. 

“ Then he may be hung,” said she, low and solemnly, after 
a long pause. Philip turned away his face, and did not utter 
a word. Again deep silence, broken only by some homely 
sound in the kitchen. “ Mother must not know on it,” said 
Sylvia, in the same tone in which she had spoken before. 

“ It’s t’ worst as can happen to him,” said Philip. 
“ More likely he’ll be transported ; maybe he’ll be brought 
in innocent after all.” 

“No,” said Sylvia heavily, as one without hope — as if she 
were reading some dreadful doom in the tablets of the awful 
future. “ They’ll hang him. Oh, feyther ! feyther I ” she 
choked out, almost stuffing her apron into her mouth to 
deaden the sound, and catching at Philip’s hand, and 
wringing it with convulsive force, till the pain that he loved 

319 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

was nearly more than he could bear. No words of his could 
touch such agony ; but irrepressibly, and, as he would have 
done it to a wounded child, he bent over her, and kissed 
her with a tender, trembling kiss. She did not repulse it ; 
probably she did not even perceive it. 

At that moment, Phoebe came in with the gruel. Philip 
saw her, and knew, in an instant, what the old woman’s 
conclusion must needs be ; but Sylvia had to be shaken by 
the now standing Philip, before she could be brought back to 
the least consciousness of the present time. She lifted up 
her white face to understand his words ; then she rose up 
like one who slowly comes to the use of her limbs. 

“ I suppose I mun go,” she said ; “ but I’d sooner face 
the dead. If she asks me, Philip, what mun I say ? ” 

“ She’ll not ask yo’,” said he, “ if yo’ go about as common. 
She’s never asked yo’ all this time ; an’, if she does, put her 
on to me. I’ll keep it from her as long as I can ; I’ll manage 
better nor I’ve done wi’ thee, Sylvie,” said he, with a sad, 
faint smile, looking with fond penitence at her altered 
countenance. 

“ Thou mustn’t blame thysel’,” said Sylvia, seeing his 
regret. “ I brought it on me mysel’ ; I thought I would ha’ t’ 
truth, whativer came on it ; and now I’m not strong enough 
to stand it. God help me ! ” she continued piteously. 

“ Oh, Sylvie, let me help yo’ ! I cannot do what God 
can — I’m not meaning that ; but I can do next to Him of 
any man. I have loved yo’ for years an’ years, in a way it’s 
terrible to think on, if my love can do nought now to comfort 
yo’ in your sore distress.” 

“ Cousin Philip,” she replied, in the same measured tone 
in which she had always spoken since she had learned the 
extent of her father’s danger — and the slow stillness of her 
words was in harmony with the stony look of her face — 
“ thou’s a comfort to me, I couldn’t bide my life without 
thee ; but I cannot take in the thought o’ love, it seems 
beside me quite; I can think on nought but them that is 
quick and them that is dead.” 

320 


Gloomy Days 


CHAPTBE XXVn 

GLOOMY DAYS 

Philip had money in the Fosters’ bank ; not so much as it 
might have been, if he had not had to pay for the furniture in 
his house. Much of this furniture was old, and had belonged 
to the brothers Foster, and they had let Philip have it at 
a very reasonable rate; but still the purchase of it had 
diminished the amount of his savings. But on the sum 
which he possessed he drew largely — he drew all — nay, he 
overdrew his account somewhat, to his former masters’ dis- 
may, although the kindness of their hearts overruled the 
harder arguments of their heads. 

All was wanted to defend Daniel Eobson at the approach- 
ing York assizes. His wife had handed over to Philip all 
the money, or money’s worth, she could lay her hands upon. 
Daniel himself was not one to be much beforehand with the 
world ; but, to Bell’s thrifty imagination, the round golden 
guineas, tied up in the old stocking-foot against rent-day, 
seemed a mint of money on which Philip might draw in- 
finitely. As yet, she did not comprehend the extent of her 
husband’s danger. Sylvia went about like one in a dream, 
keeping back the hot tears that might interfere with the 
course of life she had prescribed for herself, in that terrible 
hour when she first learnt all. Every penny of money either 
she or her mother could save went to Philip. Kester’s hoard, 
too, was placed in Hepburn’s hands at Sylvia’s earnest 
entreaty ; for Kester had no great opinion of Philip’s judg- 
ment, and would rather have taken his money straight 
himself to Mr. Dawson, and begged him to use it for his 
master’s behoof. 

Indeed, if anything, the noiseless breach between Kester 
and Philip had widened of late. It was seed-time, and 
Philip, in his great anxiety for every possible interest that 

321 Y 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

might affect Sylvia, and also as some distraction from his 
extreme anxiety about her father, had taken to stud^’ing 
agriculture of an evening in some old books which he had 
borrowed — The Farmer’s Complete Guide, and suchlike ; and, 
from time to time, he came down upon the practical, dogged 
Kester with directions gathered from the theories in his 
books. Of course the two fell out, but without many words. 
Kester persevered in his old ways, making light of Philip and 
his books, in manner and action, till at length Philip withdrew 
from the contest. “ Many a man may lead a horse to water ; 
but there’s few can make him drink ; ” and Philip certainly 
was not one of those few. Kester, indeed, looked upon him 
with jealous eyes on many accounts. He had favoured 
Charley Kinraid as a lover of Sylvia’s ; and, though he had 
no idea of the truth — though he believed in the drowning of 
the specksioneer as much as any one — yet the year which 
had elapsed since Kinraid’s supposed death was but a very 
short while to the middle-aged man, who forgot how slowly 
time passes with the young ; and he could often have scolded 
Sylvia, if the poor girl had been a whit less heavy at heart 
than she was, for letting Philip come so much about her — 
come, though it was on her father’s business. For the dark- 
ness of their common dread drew them together, occasionally 
to the comparative exclusion of Bell and Kester, which the 
latter perceived and resented. Kester even allowed himself 
to go so far as to wonder what Philip could want with all the 
money, which to him seemed unaccountable ; and once or 
twice the ugly thought crossed his mind, that shops con- 
ducted by young men were often not so profitable as when 
guided by older heads, and that some of the coin poured into 
Philip’s keeping might have another destination than the 
defence of his master. Poor Philip ! and he was spending 
all his own, and more than all his own, money ; and no one 
ever knew it, as he had bound down his friendly bankers to 
secrecy ! 

Once only, Kester ventured to speak to Sylvia on the 
subject of Philip. She had followed her cousin to the field 

322 


Gloomy Days 

just in front of their house, just outside the porch, to ask 
him some question she dared not put in her mother’s 
presence — (Bell, indeed, in her anxiety, usually absorbed all 
the questions when Philip came) — and stood, after Philip 
had bid her good-bye, hardly thinking about him at all, but 
looking unconsciously after him as he ascended the brow ; 
and at the top he had turned to take a last glance at the 
place his love inhabited, and, seeing her, he had waved his 
hat in gratified farewell. She, meanwhile, was roused from 
far other thoughts than of him and of his now acknowledged 
love, by the motion against the sky, and was turning back 
into the house, when she heard Kester’s low hoarse call, and 
saw him standing at the shippen-door. 

“ Come hither, wench,” said he indignantly ; “is this a 
time for courtin’ ? ” 

“ Courtin’ ? ” said she, drawing up her head, and looking 
back at him with proud defiance. 

“ Ay, courtin’ ! what other mak’ o’ thing is’t, when thou’s 
gazin’ after yon meddlesome chap, as if thou’d send thy eyes 
after him, and he making marlocks back at thee ? It’s what 
we ca’ed courtin’ i’ my young days, anyhow. And it’s noane 
a time for a wench to go courtin’, when her feyther’s i’ prison,” 
said he, with a consciousness as he uttered these last words 
that he was cruel and unjust and going too far, yet carried 
on to say them by his hot jealousy against Philip. 

Sylvia continued looking at him without speaking : she 
was too much offended for expression. 

“ Thou may glower, an’ thou may look, lass,” said he ; 
“ but a’d thought better on thee. It’s like last week thy last 
sweetheart were drowned ; but thou’s not one to waste time 
i’ rememberin’ them as is gone — if, indeed, thou iver cared a 
button for yon Kinraid — if it wasn’t a make-believe.” 

Her lips were contracted and drawn up, showing her 
small glittering teeth, which were scarcely apart as she 
breathed out — 

“ Thou thinks so, does thou, that I’ve forgotten him f 
Thou’d better have a care o’ thy tongue.” 

323 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Then, as if fearful that her self-command might give way, 
she turned into the house ; and, going through the kitchen 
like a blind person, she went up to her now unused chamber, 
and threw herself, face downwards, flat on her bed, almost 
smothering herself. 

Ever since Daniel’s committal, the decay that had imper- 
ceptibly begun in his wife’s bodily and mental strength during 
her illness of the previous winter had been making quicker 
progress. She lost her reticence of speech, and often talked 
to herself. She had not so much forethought as of old; 
slight differences, it is true, but which, with some others of 
the same description, gave foundation for the homely expres- 
sion which some now applied to Bell, “ She’ll never be t’ 
same woman again.” 

This afternoon, she had cried herself to sleep in her chair 
after Philip’s departure. She had not heard Sylvia’s sweep- 
ing passage through the kitchen; but, half-an-hour after- 
wards, she was startled up by Kester’s abrupt entry. 

“ Where’s Sylvie ? ” asked he. 

“ I don’t know,” said Bell, looking scared, and as if she 
was ready to cry. “ It’s no news about him ? ” said she, 
standing up, and supporting herself on the stick she was 
now accustomed to use. 

“ Bless yo’, no ; dunnot be afeared, missus ; it’s only as a 
spoke hasty to t’ wench, an’ a want t’ tell her as a’m sorry,” 
said Kester, advancing into the kitchen, and looking round 
for Sylvia. 

“ Sylvie, Sylvie ! ” shouted he ; “ she mun be i’ t’ 
house.” 

Sylvia came slowly down the stairs, and stood before him. 
Her face was pale, her mouth set and determined ; the light 
of her eyes veiled in gloom. Kester shrank from her look, 
and even more from her silence. 

“ A’m come to ax pardon,” said he, after a little pause. 

She was still silent. 

“ A’m noane above axing pardon, though a’m fifty and 
more, and thee’s but a silly wench, as a’ve nursed i’ my 

324 


Gloomy Days 

arms. A’ll say, before thy mother, as a ought niver to ha’ 
used them words, and as how a’m sorry for ’t.” 

“ I don’t understand it all,” said Bell in a hurried and 
perplexed tone. “ What has Kester been saying, my lass ? ” 
she added, turning to Sylvia. 

Sylvia went a step or two nearer to her mother, and took 
hold of her hand, as if to quieten her ; then, facing once more 
round, she said deliberately to Kester — 

“ If thou wasn’t Kester, I’d niver forgive thee. Niver,” 
she added with bitterness, as the words he had used recurred 
to her mind. “ It’s in me to hate thee now, for saying what 
thou did ; but thou’re dear old Kester after all, and, I can’t 
help mysel’, I mun needs forgive thee ; ” and she went 
towards him. He took her little head between his homy 
hands, and kissed it. She looked up, with tears in her eyes, 
saying softly — 

“ Niver say things like them again. Niver speak 
on ” 

“ A’ll hite my tongue off first,” he interrupted. 

He kept his word. 

In all Philip’s comings and goings to and from Hayters- 
bank Farm at this time, he never spoke again of his love. 
In look, words, manner, he was like a thoughtful, tender 
brother ; nothing more. He could be nothing more, in the 
presence of the great dread which loomed larger upon him 
after every conversation with the lawyer. 

For Mr. Donkin had been right in his prognostication. 
Government took up the attack on the Eendezvous with a 
high and heavy hand. It was necessary to assert authority, 
which had been of late too often braved. An example must 
be made, to strike dismay into those who opposed and defied 
the press-gang ; and all the minor authorities who held their 
powers from Government were, in a similar manner, severe 
and relentless in the execution of their duty. So the attorney, 
who went over to see the prisoner in York Castle, told 
Philip. He added that Daniel still retained his pride in his 
achievement, and could not be brought to understand the 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

dangerous position in which he was placed; that, when 
pressed and questioned as to circumstances that might 
possibly be used in his defence, he always wandered off to 
accounts of previous outrages committed by the press-gang, 
or to passionate abuse of the trick by which men had been 
lured from their homes, on the night in question, to assist 
in putting out an imaginary fire, and had then been seized 
and carried off. Some of this very natural indignation might 
possibly have some effect on the jury; and this seemed 
the only ground of hope, and was indeed a slight one, as 
the judge was likely to warn the jury against allowing their 
natural sympathy in such a case to divert their minds from 
the real question. 

Such was the substance of what Philip heard, and heard 
repeatedly, during his many visits to Mr. Dawson. And now 
the time of trial drew near ; for the York assizes opened on 
March the twelfth — not much above three weeks since the 
offence was committed which took Daniel from his home and 
placed him in peril of death. 

Philip was glad that, the extremity of his danger never 
having been hinted to Bell, and travelhng some forty miles 
being a most unusual exertion at that time to persons of her 
class, the idea of going to see her husband at York had never 
suggested itself to Bell’s mind. Her increasing feebleness 
made this seem a step only to be taken in case of the fatal 
extreme necessity ; such was the conclusion that both Sylvia 
and he had come to ; and it was the knowledge of this that 
made Sylvia strangle her own daily longing to see her father. 
Not but that her hopes were stronger than her fears. Philip 
never told her the causes for despondency ; she was young, 
and she, like her father, could not understand how fearful 
sometimes is the necessity for prompt and severe punishment 
of rebellion against authority. 

Philip was to be in York during the time of the assizes ; 
and it was understood, almost without words, that if the 
terrible worst occurred, the wife and daughter were to come 
to York as soon as might be. For this end Philip silently 

326 


Gloomy Days 

made all the necessary arrangements, before leaving Monks- 
haven. The sympathy of all men was with him ; it was too 
large an occasion for Coulson to be anything but magnani- 
mous. He urged Philip to take all the time requisite ; to 
leave all business cares to him. And as Philip went about, 
pale and sad, there was another cheek that grew paler still, 
another eye that filled with quiet tears, as his heaviness of 
heart became more and more apparent. The day for opening 
the assizes came on. Philip was in York Minster, watch- 
ing the solemn antique procession, in which the highest 
authority in the county accompanies the judges to the 
house of the Lord, to be there admonished as to the nature 
of their duties. As Philip listened to the sermon with a 
strained and beating heart, his hopes rose higher than his 
fears for the first time, and that evening he wrote his first 
letter to Sylvia, 

“Dear Sylvia, — 

“ It will be longer than I first thought for. Mr. Dawson 
says, Tuesday in next week. But keep up your heart ! I have 
been hearing the sermon to-day which is preached to the 
judges ; and the clergyman said so much in it about mercy 
and forgiveness, I think they cannot fail to be lenient this 
assize. I have seen uncle, who looks but thin, but is in good 
heart ; only, he will keep saying he would do it over again, if 
he had the chance, which neither Mr. Dawson nor I think 
is wise in him, in especial as the gaoler is by and hears every 
word as is said. He was very fain of hearing all about home ; 
and wants you to rear Daisy’s calf, as he thinks she will 
prove a good one. He bade me give his best love to you 
and my aunt, and his kind duty to Kester. 

“ Sylvia, will you try and forget how I used to scold you 
about your writing and spelling, and just write me two or 
three lines ? I think I would rather have them badly spelt 
than not, because then I shall be sure they are yours. And 
never mind about capitals ; I was a fool to say such a deal 
about them, for a man does just as well without them. A 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

letter from you would do a vast to keep me patient all these 
days till Tuesday. Direct — 

“ Mr. Philip Hephurn, 

“ Care of Mr. Fraser, Draper, 

“ Micklegate, York. 

“ My affectionate duty to my aunt. 

“ Your respectful cousin and servant, 

“Philip Hepburn. 

“ p^S . — The sermon was grand. The text was Zechariah 
vii. 9, ‘ Execute true judgment and show mercy.’ God grant 
it may have put mercy into the judge’s heart as is to try 
my uncle ! ” 

Heavily the days passed over. On Sunday Bell and 
Sylvia went to church, with a strange, half -superstitious 
feeling, as if they could propitiate the Most High to order 
the events in their favour, by paying Him the compliment 
of attending to duties in their time of sorrow which they had 
too often neglected in their prosperous days. 

But He who “ knoweth our frame and remembereth that 
we are dust ” took pity upon His children, and sent some of 
His blessed peace into their hearts ; else they could scarce 
have endured the agony of supense of those next hours. For, 
as they came slowly and wearily home from church, Sylvia 
could no longer bear her secret, but told her mother of the 
peril in which Daniel stood. Cold as the March wind blew, 
they had not felt it, and had sate down on a hedge bank for 
Bell to rest. And then Sylvia spoke, trembling and sick for 
fear, yet utterly unable to keep silence any longer. Bell 
heaved up her hands, and let them fall down on her knees, 
before she replied. 

“The Lord is above us,” said she solemnly. “He has 
sent a fear o’ this into my heart afore now. I niver breathed 
it to thee, my lass ” 

“ And I niver spoke on it to thee, mother, because ” 

Sylvia choked with crying, and laid her head on her 
mother’s lap, feeling that she was no longer the strong one 

328 


Gloomy Days 

and the protector, but the protected. Bell went on, stroking 
her head. 

“ The Lord is like a tender nurse as weans a child to 
look on, and to like, what it loathed once. He has sent me 
dreams as has prepared me for this, if so be it comes to 
pass.” 

“ Phihp is hopeful,” said Sylvia, raising her head and 
looking through her tears at her mother. 

“ Ay, he is. And I cannot tell, but I think it’s not for 
nought as the Lord has ta’en away all fear o’ death out o’ 
my heart. I think He means as Daniel and me is to go 
hand-in-hand through the valley — like as we walked up to 
our wedding in Crosthwaite Church. I could never guide 
th’ house without Daniel, and I should be feared he’d take 
a deal more nor is good for him without me.” 

“ But me, mother ! thou’s forgetting me ! ” moaned out 
Sylvia. “ Oh, mother, mother, think on me ! ” 

“ Nay, my lass, I’m noane forgetting yo’. I’d a sore heart 
a’ last winter a- thinking on thee, when that chap Kinraid were 
hanging about thee. I’ll noane speak ill on the dead ; but I 
were uneasy-like. But sin’ Philip and thee seem to ha’ made 
it up ” — Sylvia shivered, and opened her mouth to speak, but 
did not say a word — “ and sin’ the Lord has been comforting 
me, and talking to me many a time when thou’s thought I 
were asleep, things has seemed to redd theirselves up ; and, if 
Daniel goes, I’m ready to follow. I could niver stand living 
to hear folks say he’d been hung ; it seems so unnatural and 
shameful.” 

“ But, mother, he won’t ! — he shan’t be hung ! ” said 
Sylvia, springing to her feet. “ Philip says he won’t.” 

Bell shook her head. They walked on, Sylvia both dis- 
heartened and almost irritated at her mother’s despondency. 
But before they went to bed at night. Bell said things which 
seemed as though the morning’s feelings had been but tempo- 
rary, and as if she was referring every decision to the period 
of her husband’s return. “ When father comes home,” seemed 
a sort of burden at the beginning or end of every sentence ; 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

and this reliance on his certain coming back to them was 
almost as great a trial to Sylvia as the absence of all hope 
had been in the morning. But that instinct told her that her 
mother was becoming incapable of argument, she would have 
asked her why her views were so essentially changed in so 
few hours. This inability of reason in poor Bell made Sylvia 
feel very desolate. 

Monday passed over — how, neither of them knew, for 
neither spoke of what was filling the thoughts of both. Before 
it was light on Tuesday morning. Bell was astir. 

“It’s very early, mother,” said weary, sleepy Sylvia, 
dreading returning consciousness. 

“ Ay, lass ! ” said Bell, in a brisk, cheerful tone ; “ but 
he’ll, maybe, be home to-night, and I’se bound to have all 
things ready for him.” 

“ Anyhow,” said Sylvia, sitting up in bed, “ he couldn’t 
come home to-night.” 

“ Tut, lass ! thou doesn’t know how quick a man comes 
home to wife and child. I’ll be a’ ready, at any rate.” 

She burned about in a way which Sylvia wondered to see ; 
till at length she fancied that perhaps her mother did so to 
drive away thought. Every place was cleaned; there was 
scarce time allowed for breakfast ; till, at last, long before 
midday, all the work was done, and the two sat down to 
their spinning-wheels. Sylvia’s spirits sank lower and lower, 
at each speech of her mother’s, from whose mind all fear 
seemed to have disappeared, leaving only a strange restless 
kind of excitement. 

“ It’s time for t’ potatoes,” said Bell, after her wool had 
snapped many a time from her uneven tread. 

“ Mother,” said Sylvia, “ it’s but just gone ten ! ” 

“ Put ’em on,” said Bell, without attending to the full 
meaning of her daughter’s words. “ It’ll, maybe, hasten t’ 
day on, if we get dinner done betimes.” 

“ But Kester is in t’ Far Acre field, and he’ll not be home 
till noon.” 

This seemed to settle matters for a while ; but then Bell 

330 


Gloomy Days 

pushed her wheel away, and began searching for her hood and 
cloak. Sylvia found them for her, and then asked sadly — 

“ What does ta want ’em for, mother ? ” 

“ I’ll go up t’ brow and through t’ field, and just have a 
look down t’ lane.” 

“ I’ll go wi’ thee,” said Sylvia, feeling all the time the use- 
lessness of any looking for intelligence from York so early in 
the day. Very patiently did she wait by her mother’s side 
during the long half-hour which Bell spent in gazing down 
the road for those who never came. 

When they got home, Sylvia put the potatoes on to boil ; 
but, when dinner was ready and the three were seated at the 
dresser. Bell pushed her plate away from her, saying it was 
so long after dinner-time that she was past eating. Kester 
would have said something about its being only half-past 
twelve ; but Sylvia gave him a look beseeching silence, and he 
went on with his dinner without a word, only brushing away 
the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand from time 
to time. 

“ A’ll noane go far fra’ home t’ rest o’ t’ day,” said he, in 
a whisper to Sylvia, as he went out. 

“Will this day niver come to an end ? ” cried Bell, 
plaintively. 

“ Oh, mother ! it’ll come to an end sometime, niver fear ! 
I’ve heerd say — 

‘ Be the day weary, or be the day long. 

At length it ringeth to even-song.’ ’’ 

“ To even-song — to even-song,” repeated Bell. “ D’ye 
think, now, that even-song means death, Sylvie ? ” 

“ I cannot tell — I cannot bear it. Mother,” said Sylvia 
in despair, “ I’ll make some clap-bread : that’s a heavy job, 
and will while away t’ afternoon.” 

“ Ay, do ! ” replied the mother. “ He’ll like it fresh— 
he’ll like it fresh.” 

Murmuring and talking to herself, she fell into a doze, 
from which Sylvia was careful not to disturb her. 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

The days were now getting long, although as cold as 
ever ; and at Haytersbank Farm the light lingered, as there 
was no near horizon to bring on early darkness. Sylvia had 
all ready for her mother’s tea, against she wakened ; but she 
slept on and on, the peaceful sleep of a child, and Sylvia did 
not care to waken her. Just after the sun had set, she saw 
Kester outside the window making signs to her to come out. 
She stole out on tip-toe by the back-kitchen, the door of which 
was standing open. She almost ran against Philip, who did 
not perceive her, as he was awaiting her coming the other way, 
round the corner of the house, and who turned upon her a 
face whose import she read in an instant. “ Philip ! ” was 
all she said ; and then she fainted at his feet, coming down 
with a heavy bang on the round paving-stones of the yard. 

“ Kester ! Kester ! ” he cried, for she looked like one dead, 
and, with all his strength, the wearied man could not lift her 
and carry her into the house. 

With Kester’s help, she was home into the back-kitchen, 
and Kester rushed to the pump for some cold water to throw 
over her. 

While Philip, kneeling at her head, was partly supporting 
her in his arms, and heedless of any sight or sound, the 
shadow of some one fell upon him. He looked up and saw 
his aunt ; the old dignified, sensible expression on her face, 
exactly like her former self, composed, strong, and calm. 

“ My lass,” said she, sitting down by Philip, and gently 
taking her out of his arms into her own. “ Lass, bear up ! 
we mun bear up, and be a-gait on our way to him ; he’ll be 
needing us now. Bear up, my lass ! the Lord will give us 
strength. We mun go to him ; ay, time’s precious ; thou 
mun cry thy cry at after ! ” 

Sylvia opened her dim eyes, and heard her mother’s 
voice ; the ideas came slowly into her mind, and slowly she 
rose up, standing still, like one who has been stunned, to 
regain her strength ; and then, taking hold of her mother’s 
arm, she said, in a soft, strange voice — 

“ Let’s go. I’m ready.” 


332 


The Ordeal 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

THE ORDEAL 

It was the afternoon of an April day, in that same year ; and 
the sky was blue above, with little sailing white clouds 
catching the pleasant sunlight. The earth, in that northern 
country, had scarcely yet put on her robe of green. The few 
trees grew near brooks running down from the moors and 
the higher ground. The air was full of pleasant sounds, 
prophesying of the coming summer. The rush, and murmur, 
and tinkle of the hidden water-courses ; the song of the lark, 
poised high up in the sunny air ; the bleat of the lambs 
calling to their mothers — everything inanimate was full of 
hope and gladness. 

For the first time for a mournful month, the front-door of 
Haytersbank Farm was open; the warm spring air might 
enter, and displace the sad dark gloom, if it could. There 
was a newly-hghted fire in the unused grate ; and Kester 
was in the kitchen, with his clogs off his feet, so as not to 
dirty the spotless floor, stirring here and there, and trying, in 
his awkward way, to make things look home-like and cheerful. 
He had brought in some wild daffodils, which he had been to 
seek in the dawn ; and he placed them in a jug on the dresser. 
Dolly Eeid, the woman who had come to help Sylvia during 
her mother’s illness, a year ago, was attending to something 
in the back-kitchen, making a noise among the milk-cans, 
and singing a ballad to herself as she worked ; yet, every now 
and then, she checked herself in her singing, as if a sudden 
recollection came upon her that this was neither the time 
nor the place for songs. Once or twice, she took up the 
funeral psalm which is sung by the bearers of the body in 
that country — 

“ 0 God, our help in ages past.” 

But it was of no use : the pleasant April weather out of 

333 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

doors, and perhaps the natural spring in the body, disposed 
her nature to cheerfulness, and insensibly she returned to her 
old ditty. 

Kester was turning over many things in his rude honest 
mind, as he stood there, giving his finishing touches every 
now and then to the aspect of the house-place, in prepara- 
tion for the return of the widow and daughter of his old 
master. 

It was a month and more, since they had left home ; more 
than a fortnight since Kester, with three halfpence in his 
pocket, had set out after his day’s work to go to York — to 
walk all night long, and to wish Daniel Eobson his last 
farewell. 

Daniel had tried to keep up, and had brought out one or 
two familiar, thread-bare, well-worn jokes, such as he had 
made Kester chuckle over, many a time and oft, when the 
two had been together a-field, or in the shippen at the home 
which he should never more see. But no “ Old Grouse in the 
gun-room ” could make Kester smile, or do anything except 
groan in but a heart-broken sort of fashion ; and presently the 
talk had become more suitable to the occasion, Daniel being 
up to the last the more composed of the two ; for Kester, 
when turned out of the condemned cell, fairly broke down 
into the heavy sobbing he had never thought to sob again on 
earth. He had left Bell and Sylvia in their lodging at York, 
under Philip’s care ; he dared not go to see them ; he could 
not trust himself; he had sent them his duty; and bade 
Philip tell Sylvia that the game-hen had brought out fifteen 
chickens at a hatch. 

Yet, although Kester sent this message through Philip — 
although he saw and recognised all that Philip was doing on 
their behalf, on the behalf of Daniel Eobson, the condemned 
felon, his honoured master — he liked Hepburn not a whit 
better than he had done before all this sorrow had come upon 
them. 

Philip had, perhaps, shown a want of tact in his conduct 
to Kester. Acute with passionate keenness in one direction, 

334 


The Ordeal 

he had a sort of dull straightforwardness in all others. For 
instance, he had returned Kester the money which the latter 
had so gladly advanced towards the expenses ‘ incurred in 
defending Daniel. Now, the money which Philip gave him 
back was part of an advance which Foster Brothers had 
made on Philip’s own account. Philip had thought that it 
was hard on Kester to lose his savings in a hopeless cause, 
and had made a point of repaying the old man ; but Kester 
would far rather have felt that the earnings of the sweat of 
his brow had gone in the attempt to save his master’s life 
than have had twice ten times as many golden guineas. 

Moreover, it seemed to take his action in lending his 
hoard out of the sphere of love, and make it but a leaden 
common loan, when it was Philip who brought him the sum, 
not Sylvia, into whose hands he had given it. 

With these feelings, Kester felt his heart shut up as he 
saw the long-watched-for two coming down the little path 
with a third person ; with Philip holding up the failing steps of 
poor BelLEobson, as, loaded with her heavy mourning, and 
feeble from the illness which had detained her in York ever 
since the day of her husband’s execution, she came faltering 
back to her desolate home. Sylvia was also occupied in 
attending to her mother ; once or twice, when they paused a 
little, she and Philip spoke, in the familiar way‘ in which 
there is no coyness nor reserve. Kester caught up his clogs, 
and went quickly out through the back-kitchen into the farm- 
yard, not staying to greet them, as he had meant to do ; and 
yet it was dull- sighted of him not to have perceived that, 
whatever might be the relations between Philip and Sylvia, 
he was sure to have accompanied them home ; for, alas ! he 
was the only male protector of their blood remaining in the 
world. Poor Kester, who would fain have taken that office 
upon himself, chose to esteem himself cast off, and went 
heavily about the farm-yard, knowing that he ought to go in 
and bid such poor welcome as he had to offer, yet feeling too 
much to like to show himself before Philip. 

It was long, too, before any one had leisure to come and 

335 


« 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

seek him. Bell's mind had flashed up for a time, till the 
fatal day, only to he reduced by her subsequent iUness into 
complete and hopeless childishness. It was all Philip and 
Sylvia could do to manage her, in the first excitement of 
returning home; her restless inquiry for him who would 
never more be present in the familiar scene, her feverish 
weariness and uneasiness — all required tender soothing and 
most patient endurance of her refusals to be satisfied with 
what they said or did. 

At length she took some food, and, refreshed by it, and 
warmed by the fire, she sank asleep in her chair. Then 
Philip would fain have spoken with Sylvia, before the hour 
came at which he must return to Monkshaven; but she 
eluded him, and went in search of Kester, whose presence 
she had missed. 

She had guessed some of the causes which kept him from 
greeting them on their first return. But it was not as if she 
had shaped these causes into the definite form of words. It 
is astonishing to look back and find how differently con- 
stituted were the minds of most people, fifty or sixty years 
ago ; they felt, they understood, without going through 
reasoning or analytic processes ; and, if this was the case 
among the more educated people, of course it was still more 
so in the class to which Sylvia belonged. She knew by some 
sort of intuition that, if Philip accompanied them home (as, 
indeed, under the circumstances, was so natural as to be 
almost unavoidable), the old servant and friend of the family 
would absent himself ; and so she slipped away at the first 
possible moment to go in search of him. There he was in 
the farm-yard, leaning over the gate that opened into the 
home-field, apparently watching the poultry that scratched 
and pecked at the new-springing grass with the utmost relish. 
A little farther off* were the ewes with their new-dropped 
lambs ; beyond that the great old thom-tree with its round 
fresh clusters of buds'; again beyond that there was a glimpse 
of the vast sunny rippling sea ; but Sylvia knew well that 
Kester was looking at none of those things. She went up to 

336 


The Ordeal 

him and touched his arm. He started from his reverie, and 
turned round upon her, with his dim eyes full of unshed 
tears. When he saw her black dress, her deep mourning, he 
had hard work to keep from breaking out ; but, by dint of 
a good brush of his eyes with the back of his hand, and a 
moment’s pause, he could look at her again with tolerable 
calmness. 

“ Why, Kester ! why didst niver come to speak to us ? ” 
said Sylvia, finding it necessary to be cheerful, if she could. 

“ A dun know ; niver ax me. A say, they’n gi’en Dick 
Simpson ” (whose evidence had been all material against 
poor Daniel Robson at the trial) “ a’ t’ rotten eggs and fou’ 
things they could o’ Saturday, they did,” continued he, in a 
tone of satisfaction ; “ ay, and they niver stopped t’ see 
whether t’ eggs were rotten or fresh, when their blood was 
up — nor whether stones was hard or soft,” he added in a 
lower tone, and chuckling a little. 

Sylvia was silent. He looked at her now, chuckling still. 
Her face was white, her bps tightened, her eyes a-flame. She 
drew a long breath. 

“ I wish I’d been theere ! I wish I could do him an ill 
turn,” sighed she, with some kind of expression on her face 
that made Kester quail a little. 

“ Nay, lass ! he’ll get it fra’ others. Niver fret thysel’ 
about sich rubbish. A’n done ill to speak on him.” 

“ No ! thou hasn’t. Them as was friends o’ father’s I’ll 
love for iver and iver ; them as helped for t’ hang him ” (she 
shuddered from head to foot — a sharp irrepressible shudder ! ) 
“ I’ll niver forgive — niver ! ” 

“ Niver’s a long word,” said Kester musingly. “ A could 
horse- whip him, or cast stones at him, or duck him mysel’ ; 
but, lass ! niver’s a long word ! ” 

“Well! niver heed, if it is — it’s me as said it, and I’m 
turned savage late days. Come in, Kester, and see poor 
mother.” 

“ A cannot,” said he, turning his wrinkled, puckered face 
away, that she might not see the twitchings of emotion on it. 

337 z 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ There’s kine to be fetched up, and what not ; and he s 
theere, isn’t he, Sylvie ? ” facing round upon her with in- 
quisitiveness. Under his peering eyes she reddened a little. 

“ Yes, if it’s Philip thou means ; he’s been all we’ve had 
to look to sin’.” Again the shudder. 

“ Well, now he’ll be seein’ after his shop, a reckon ? 

Sylvia was calling to the old mare, nibbling tufts of early- 
springing grass here and there, and was half unconsciously 
coaxing the creature to come up to the gate to be stroked. 
But she heard Kester’s words well enough ; and so he saw, 
although she made this excuse not to reply. But Kester was 
not to be put off. 

‘‘ Folks is talkin’ about thee and him ; thou’ll ha’ to mind 
lest thee and him gets yo’r names coupled together.” 

“ It’s right down cruel on folks, then,” said she, crimson- 
ing from some emotion. “As if any man as was a man 
wouldn’t do all he could for two lone women at such a time 
■ — and he a cousin, too ! Tell me who said so,” continued 
she, firing round at Kester, “ and I’ll niver forgive ’em — 
that’s all.” 

“ Hoots ! ” said Kester, a little conscious that he himself 
was the principal representative of that name of multitude, 
“ folk.” “ Here’s a pretty lass ; she’s got ‘ a’ll niver forgi’e ’ 
at her tongue’s end wi’ a vengeance.” 

Sylvia was a little confused. 

“ Oh, Kester, man,” said she, “ my heart is sore again’ 
every one, for feyther’s sake.” 

And, at length, the natural relief of plentiful tears came ; 
and Kester, with instinctive wisdom, let her weep undis- 
turbed; indeed, he cried not a little himself. They were 
interrupted by Philip’s voice from the back-door. 

“ Sylvie, your mother’s awake, and wants you ! ” 

“ Oome, Kester, come 1 ” and, taking hold of him, she drew 
him with her into the house. 

Bell rose as they came in, holding by the arms of the 
chair. At first she received Kester as though he had been a 
stranger. 


338 


The Ordeal 

“I’m glad to see yo’, sir; t’ master’s out; but he’ll 
be in afore long. It’ll be about t’ lambs yo’re come, 
mebbe ? ” 

“Mother!” said Sylvia, “dunnotyo’ see? it’s Kester — ^ 
Kester, wi’ his Sunday clothes on.” 

“Kester! ay, sure it is; my eyes have getten so sore 
and dim of late ; just as if I’d been greeting. I’m sure, lad, 
I’m glad to see thee ! It’s a long time I’ve been away ; but 
it were not pleasure-seeking as took me ; it were business o’ 
some mak’ — tell him, Sylvie, what it were, for my head’s 
clean gone. I only know, I wouldn’t ha’ left home, if I could 
ha’ helped it ; for I think I should ha’ kept my health better, 
if I’d bided at home wi’ my master. I wonder as he’s not 
corned in, for t’ bid me welcome ? Is he fa r a-field, think ye, 
Kester ? ” 

Kester looked at Sylvia, mutely imploring her to help 
him out in the dilemma of answering ; but she was doing all 
she could to help crying. Philip came to the rescue. 

“ Aunt,” said he, “ the clock has stopped ; can you tell 
me where t’ find t’ key, and I’ll wind it up.” 

“ T’ key,” said she hurriedly, “f key, it’s behind th’ big 
Bible on yon shelf. But I’d rayther thou wouldn’t touch 
it, lad ; it’s t’ master’s work, and he distrusts folk meddling 
wi’ it.” 

Day after day there was this constant reference to her 
dead husband. In one sense it was a blessing ; all the cir- 
cumstances attendant on his sad and untimely end were 
swept out of her mind, along with the recollection of the fact 
itself. She referred to him as absent, and had always some 
plausible way of accounting for it which satisfied her own 
mind ; and, accordingly, they fell into the habit of humouring 
her, and speaking of him as gone to Monkshaven, or a-field, 
or wearied out and taking a nap upstairs, as her fancy led 
her to believe for the moment. But this forgetfulness, 
though happy for herself, was terrible for her child. It was 
a constant renewing of Sylvia’s grief, while her mother 
could give her no sympathy, no help, or strength in any 

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circumstances that arose out of this grief. She was driven 
more and more upon Philip ; his advice and his affection 
became daily more necessary to her. 

Kester saw what would be the end of all this more clearly 
than Sylvia did herself ; and, impotent to hinder what he 
feared and disliked, he grew more and more surly every day. 
Yet he tried to labour hard and well for the interests of the 
family, as if they were bound up in his good management of 
the cattle and land. He was out and about by the earliest 
dawn, working all day long with might and main. He 
bought himself a pair of new spectacles, which might, he 
fancied, enable him to read the Farmer's Complete Guide, his 
dead master’s vade-mecum. But he had never learnt more 
than his capital letters, and had forgotten many of them; 
so the spectacles did him but httle good. Then he would 
take the book to Sylvia, and ask her to read to him the 
instructions he needed— instructions, be it noted, that he 
would formerly have despised as mere book-learning; but 
his present sense of responsibility had made him humble. 

Sylvia would find the place with all deliberation; and, 
putting her finger under the line to keep the exact place of 
the word she was reading, she would strive in good earnest 
to read out the directions given; but, when every fourth 
word had to be spelt, it was rather hopeless work, especially 
as all these words were unintelligible to the open-mouthed 
listener, however intent he might be. He had generally to 
fall back on his own experience ; and, guided by that, things 
were not doing badly in his estimation, when, one day, Sylvia 
said to him, as they were in the hay-field, heaping up the 
hay into cocks with Dolly Eeid’s assistance — 

“ Kester — I didn’t tell thee — there were a letter from 
Measter Hall, Lord Malton’s steward, that came last night, 
and that Philip read me.” 

She stopped for a moment. 

“ Ay, lass ! Philip read it thee ; and whatten might it 
say?” 

“ Only that he had an offer for Haytersbank Farm, and 

340 


The Ordeal 

would set mother free to go as soon as t’ crops was off t’ 
ground.” 

She sighed a little, as she said this. 

Only ! ’ sayst ta ? Whatten business has he for to go 
an’ offer to let t’ farm, afore iver he were told as yo’ wished 
to leave it ? ” observed Kester in high dudgeon. 

“ Oh ! ” replied Sylvia, throwing down her rake, as if 
weary of hfe. “ What could we do wi’ t’ farm and land ? 
If it were all dairy, I might ha’ done ; but wi’ so much on it 
arable 1 ” 

“ And, if ’tis arable, is not I allays to t’ fore ? ” 

“ Oh, man, dunnot find fault wi’ me ! I’m just fain to 
lie down and die, if it were not for mother.” 

“ Ah ! thy mother wiU be sore unsettled, if thou’s for 
quitting Haytersbank,” said merciless Kester. 

“ I cannot help it ; I cannot help it ! What can I do ? 
It would take two pair o’ men’s hands to keep t’ land up 
as Measter Hall likes it ; and beside ” 

“ Beside what ? ” said Kester, looking up at her with his 
sudden, odd look, one eye shut, the other open ; there she 
stood, her two hands clasped tight together, her eyes filling 
with tears, her face pale and sad. “ Beside what ? ” he asked 
again sharply. 

“ T’ answer’s sent to Measter Hall — Philip wrote it last 
night ; so there’s no use planning and fretting ; it were done 
for t’ best, and mun be done.” She stooped and picked up 
her rake, and began tossing the hay with energy, the tears 
streaming down her cheeks, unheeded. It was Kester’s turn 
to throw down his rake. She took no notice ; he did not feel 
sure that she had observed his action. He began to walk 
towards the field-gate ; this movement did catch her eye, for 
in a minute her hand was on his arm, and she was stooping 
forward to look into his face. It was working and twitching 
with emotion. “ Kester ! oh, man ! speak out, but dunnot 
leave me a this-ns. What could I ha’ done ? Mother is 
gone dateless wi’ sorrow, and I am but a young lass — i’ years 
I mean, for I’m old enough wi’ weeping.” 

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“ I’d ha’ put up for t’ farm mysel’, sooner than had thee 
turned out,” said Kester in a low voice ; then, working him- 
self up into a passion, as a new suspicion crossed his mind, 
he added, “ An’ what for didn’t yo’ tell me on t’ letter ? Yo’ 
were in a mighty hurry to settle it a’, and get rid on t’ oud 
place.” 

“ Measter Hall had sent a notice to quit on Midsummer- 
day; but Philip had answered it hisself. Thou knows I’m 
not good at reading writing, ’special when a letter’s full o’ 
long words, and Philip had ta’en it in hand to answer.” 

“ Wi’out asking thee ? ” 

Sylvia went on, without minding the interruption. 

“ And Measter Hall makes a good offer, for t’ man as is 
going to come in will take t’ stock and a’ t’ implements ; and, 
if mother — if we — if I — like, th’ furniture and a’ ” 

“ Furniture ! ” said Kester, in grim surprise. “ What’s to 
come o’ t’ missus and thee, that yo’ll not need a bed to lie 
on, or a pot to boil yo’r vittel in ? ” 

Sylvia reddened, but kept silence. 

“ Cannot yo’ speak ? ” 

“ Oh, Kester, I didn’t think thou’d turn again’ me, and, 
me so friendless. It’s as if I’d been doin’ something wrong, 
and I have so striven to act as is best ; there’s mother as 
well as me to be thought on.” 

“ Cannot yo’ answer a question ? ” said Kester once more. 
“ Whatten’s up that t’ missus and yo’ll not need bed and 
table, pots and pans ? ” 

“ I think I’m going to marry Philip,” said Sylvia, in so 
low a tone that, if Kester had not suspected what her answer 
was to be, he could not have understood it. 

After a moment’s pause, he recommenced his walk towards 
the held-gate. But she went after him, and held him tight 
by the arm, speaking rapidly. 

“ Kester, what could I do ? What can I do ? He’s my 
cousin, and mother knows him, and likes him ; and he’s been 
so good to us in a’ this time o’ trouble and heavy grief, and 
he’ll keep mother in comfort all t’ rest of her days.” 

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The Ordeal 

“ Ay, and thee in comfort. There’s a deal in a well-filled 
purse in a wench’s eyes, or one would ha’ thought it, wem’t 
so easy forgettin’ yon lad as loved thee as t’ apple on 
his eye.” 

“ Kester, Kester,” she cried, “ I’ve niver forgotten Charley. 
I think on him, I see him ivery night lying drowned, at t’ 
bottom o’ t’ sea. Forgetten him ! Man ! it’s easy talking ! ” 
She was like a wild creature that sees its young, but is 
unable to reach it without a deadly spring, and yet is pre- 
paring to take that fatal leap. Kester himself was almost 
startled, and yet it was as if he must go on torturing her. 

“ An’ who tolled thee so sure and certain as he were 
drowned ? He might ha’ been carried off by t’ press-gang 
as well as other men.” 

“ Oh ! if I were but dead, that I might know all I ” cried 
she, flinging herself down on the hay. 

Kester kept silence. Then she sprang up again, and, 
looking with eager wistfulness into his face, she said — 

“ Tell me t’ chances. Tell me quick ! Philip’s very good, 
and kind, and he says he shall die, if I will not marry him ; 
and there’s no home for mother and me — no home for her ; 
for, as for me, I dunnot care what becomes on me; but, if 
Charley’s alive, I cannot marry Philip — no, not if he dies for 
want o’ me— and as for mother, poor mother, Kester, it’s an 
awful strait ; only first tell me if there’s a chance, just one 
in a thousand, only one in a hundred thousand, as Charley 
were ta’en by t’ gang ? ” She was breathless by this time, 
what with her hurried words, and what with the beating of 
her heart. Kester took time to answer. He had spoken 
before too hastily ; this time he weighed his words. 

“ Kinraid went away from this here place t’ join his ship. 
An’ he niver joined it no more ; an’ t’ captain, an’ all his 
friends at Newcassel as iver were, made search for him on 
board t’ King’s ships. That’s more nor fifteen months ago ; 
an’ nought has iver been heerd on him by any man. That’s 
what’s to be said on one side o’ t’ matter. Then, on t’ other, 
there’s this as is known. His hat were cast up by t’ sea wi’ 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

a ribbon in it, as there’s reason t’ think as he’d not ha’ parted 
wi’ so quick, if he’d had his own will.” 

“ But yo’ said as he might ha’ been carried off by t’ 
gang — yo’ did, Kester, tho’ now yo’re a’ for t’ other side.” 

“ My lass, a’d fain have him alive, an’ a dunnot fancy 
Philip for thy husband ; but it’s a serious judgment as thou’s 
put me on, an’ a’m trying it fair. There’s allays one chance 
i’ a thousand as he’s alive, for no man iver saw him dead. 
But t’ gang were noane about Monkshaven then ; there were 
niver a tender on t’ coast nearer than Shields, an’ those 
theere were searched.” 

He did not say any more, but turned back into the field, 
and took up his hay- making again. 

Sylvia stood quite still, thinking, and wistfully longing for 
some kind of certainty. 

Kester came up to her. 

“ Sylvie, thou knows Philip paid me back my money, and 
it were eight pound fifteen and threepence ; and t’ hay and 
stock ’ll sell for summat above t’ rent ; and a’ve a sister as 
is a decent widow- woman, tho’ but badly off, hvin’ at Dale 
End ; and if thee and thy mother ’ll go live wi’ her, a’U give 
thee well on to all a can earn, and it’ll be a matter o’ five 
shilling a week. But dunnot go and marry a man as thou’s 
noane taken wi’ ; and another, as is most like for t’ be dead, 
but who, mebbe, is alive, havin’ a pull on thy heart.” 

Sylvia began to cry as if her heart was broken. She 
had promised herself more fully to Philip the night before 
than she had told Kester ; and, with some pains and much 
patience, her cousin, her lover, alas ! her future husband, 
had made the fact clear to the bewildered mind of her poor 
mother, who had all day long shown that her mind and 
heart were full of the subject, and that the contemplation of 
it was giving her as much peace as she could ever know. 
And now Kester’s words came to call up echoes in the poor 
girl’s heart. Just as she was in this miserable state, wishing 
that the grave lay open before her, and that she could lie 
down, and be covered up by the soft green turf from all the 

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bitter sorrows and carking cares and weary bewilderments of 
this life ; wishing that her father was alive, that Charley was 
once more here ; that she had not repeated the solemn words 
by which she had promised herself to Philip, only the very 
evening before — she heard a soft, low whistle ; and, looking 
round unconsciously, there was her lover and affianced 
husband, leaning on the gate, and gazing into the field with 
passionate eyes, devouring the fair face and figure of her, 
his future wife. 

“ Oh, Kester,” said she once more, “ what mun I do ? 
I’m pledged to him as strong as words can make it; and 
mother blessed us both, wi’ more sense than she’s had for 
weeks. Kester, man, speak ! Shall I go and break it all 
off?— say!” 

“ Nay, it’s noane for me t’ say ; m’appen thou’s gone too 
far. Them above only knows what is best.” 

Again that long, cooing whistle. “ Sylvie ! ” 

“ He’s been very kind to us all,” said Sylvia, laying her 
rake down with slow care, “ and I’ll try t’ make him happy.” 


CHAPTEE XXIX 

WEDDING-RAIMENT 

Philip and Sylvia were engaged. It was not so happy a 
state of things as Philip had imagined. He had already 
found that out ; although it was not twenty-four hours 
since Sylvia had promised to be his. He could not have 
defined why he was dissatisfied ; if he had been compelled to 
account for his feeling, he would probably have alleged as a 
reason that Sylvia’s manner was so unchanged by her new 
position towards him. She was quiet and gentle; but no 
shyer, no brighter, no coyer, no happier, than she had been 
for months before. When she joined him at the field-gate, 

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his heart was beating fast, his eyes were beaming out love at 
her approach. She neither blushed nor smiled, but seemed 
absorbed in thought of some kind. But she resisted his 
silent effort to draw her away from the path leading to the 
house, and turned her face steadily homewards. He mur- 
mured soft words, which she scarcely heard. Eight in their 
way was the stone trough for the fresh bubbling water, that, 
issuing from a roadside spring, served for all the household 
purposes at Haytersbank Farm. By it were the milk-cans, 
glittering and clean. Sylvia knew she should have to stop 
for these, and carry them back home in readiness for the 
evening’s milking ; and at this time, during this action, she 
resolved to say what was on her mind. 

They were there. Sylvia spoke. 

“ Philip, Kester has been saying as how it might ha’ 
been ” 

“ Well ? ” said Philip. 

Sylvia sate down on the edge of the trough, and dipped 
her hot little hand in the water. Then she went on quickly, 
lifting her . beautiful eyes to Philip’s face, with a look of 
inquiry : “ He thinks as Charley Kinraid may ha’ been took 
by t’ press-gang.” 

It was the first time she had named the name of her 
former lover to her present one since the day, long ago now, 
when they had quarrelled about him ; and the rosy colour 
flushed her all over; but her sweet, trustful eyes never 
flinched from their steady, unconscious gaze. 

Philip’s heart stopped beating ; literally, as if he had 
come to a sudden precipice, while he had thought himself 
securely walking on sunny greensward. He went purple all 
over from dismay; he dared not take his eyes away from 
that sad, earnest look of hers ; but he was thankful that a 
mist came before them and drew a veil before his brain. . He 
heard his own voice saying words he did not seem to have 
framed in his own mind. 

“ Kester’s a d d fool,” he growled. 

“ He says there’s mebbe but one chance i’ a hundred,” 

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W edding-Raiment 

said Sylvia, pleading, as it were, for Kester ; “ but oh ! Philip, 
think yo’ there’s just that one chance ? ” 

“Ay, there’s a chance, sure enough,” said Philip, in a 
kind of fierce despair that made him reckless what he said or 
did. “ There’s a chance, I suppose, for iverything i’ life as 
we have not seen with our own eyes, as it may not ha’ 
happened. Kester may say next as there’s a chance as 
your father is not dead, because we none on us saw 
him ” 

“ Hung,” he was going to have said ; but a touch of 
humanity came back into his stony heart.* Sylvia sent up a 
little sharp cry at his words. He longed at the sound to take 
her in his arms and hush her up, as a mother hushes her 
weeping child. But the very longing, having to be repressed, 
only made him more beside himself with guilt, anxiety, and 
rage. They were quite still now — Sylvia, looking sadly down 
into the bubbling, merry, flowing water; Philip, glaring at 
her, wishing that the next word were spoken, though it might 
stab him to the heart. But she did not speak. 

At length, unable to bear it any longer, he said, “ Thou 
sets a deal o’ store on that ihan, Sylvie.” 

If “ that man ” had been there at the moment, Philip 
would have grappled with him, and not let go his hold till one 
or the other were dead. Sylvia caught some of the passionate 
meaning of the gloomy, miserable tone of Philip’s voice, as he 
said these words. She looked up at him. 

“ I thought yo’ knowed that I cared a deal for him.” 

There was something so pleading and innocent in her 
pale, troubled face, so pathetic in her tone, that Philip’s 
anger, which had been excited against her, as well as against 
all the rest of the world, melted away into love ; and, once 
more, he felt that have her for his own he must, at any cost. 
He sate down by her, and spoke to her in quite a different 
manner to that which he had used before, with a ready tact 
and art which some strange instinct or temper, “ close at his 
ear,” supplied. 

“Yes, darling, I knew yo’ cared for him. I’ll not say ill 
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Sylvia’s Lovers 

of him that is — dead — ay, dead and drowned — whativer 
Kester may say — before now ; but, if I chose, I could tell 
tales.” 

“ No ! tell no tales ; I’ll not hear them,” said she, wrench- 
ing herself out of Philip’s clasping arm. “ They may misca’ 
him for iver, and I’ll not believe ’em.” 

“ I’ll niver miscall one who is dead,” said Philip ; each new 
unconscious sign of the strength of Sylvia’s love for her former 
lover only making him the more anxious to convince her that 
he was dead, only rendering him more keen at deceiving his 
own conscience by* repeating to it the lie, that long ere this 
Kinraid was in all probability dead — killed by either the 
chances of war or tempestuous sea ; that, even if not, he was 
as good as dead to her ; so that the word “ dead ” might be 
used in all honest certainty, as in one of its meanings Kinraid 
was dead for sure. 

“ Think yo’ that, if he were not dead, he wouldn’t ha’ 
written ere this to some one of his kin, if not to thee ? Yet 
none of his folk Newcassel-way but believe him dead.” 

“ So Kester says,” sighed Sylvia. 

Philip took heart. He put hiS arm softly round her again, 
and murmured — 

“ My lassie, try not to think on them as is gone, as is 
dead, buf t’ think a bit more on him as loves yo’ wi’ heart, 
and soul, and might, and has done iver sin’ he first set eyes 
on yo’. Oh, Sylvie, my love for thee is just terrible.” 

At this moment Dolly Eeid was seen at the back-door 
of the farm-house ; and, catching sight of Sylvia, she called 
out — 

“ Sylvia, thy mother is axing for thee, and I cannot make 
her mind easy.” 

In a moment, Sylvia had sprung up from her seat, and 
was running in to soothe and comfort her mother’s troubled 
fancies. 

Philip sate on by the well-side, his face buried in his two 
hands. Presently, he lifted himself up, drank some water 
eagerly out of his hollowed palm, sighed, and shook himself, 

348 


Wedding-Raiment 

and followed his cousin into the house. Sometimes he came 
unexpectedly to the limits of his influence over her. In 
general, she obeyed his expressed wishes with gentle in- 
difference, as if she had no preferences of her own ; once or 
twice, he found that she was doing what he desired out of 
the spirit of obedience which, as her mother’s daughter, she 
believed to be her duty towards her affianced husband. And 
this last motive for action depressed her lover more than 
anything. He wanted the old Sylvia back again ; captious, 
capricious, wilful, haughty, merry, charming. Alas ! that 
Sylvia was gone for ever. 

But, once especially, his power, arising from whatever 
cause, was stopped entirely short — was utterly of no avail. 

It was on the occasion of Dick Simpson’s mortal illness. 
Sylvia and her mother kept aloof from every one. They had 
never been intimate with any family but the Corneys ; and 
even this friendship had considerably cooled since Molly’s 
marriage, and most especially since Kinraid’s supposed death, 
when Bessy Corney and Sylvia had been, as it were, rival 
mourners. But many people, both in Monkshaven and the 
country round about, held the Eobson family in great respect ; 
although Mrs. Eobson herself was accounted “ high ” and 
“ distant ” ; and poor little Sylvia, in her heyday of beautiful 
youth and high spirits, had been spoken of as “ a bit flighty,” 
and “ a set-up lassie.” Still, when their great sorrow fell 
upon them, there were plenty of friends to sympathise deeply 
with them ; and, as Daniel had suffered in a popular cause, 
there were even more who, scarcely knowing them personally, 
were ready to give them all the marks of respect and friendly 
feeling in their power. But neither Bell nor Sylvia were 
aware of this. The former had lost all perception of what 
was not immediately before her ; the latter shrank from all 
encounters of any kind with a sore heart, and sensitive avoid- 
ance of everything that could make her a subject of remark. 
So the poor afflicted people at Haytersbank knew little of 
Monkshaven news. What little did come to their ears came 
through Dolly Eeid, when she returned from selling the farm- 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

produce of the week ; and often, indeed, even then she found 
Sylvia too much absorbed in other cares or thoughts to listen 
to her gossip. So no one had ever named that Simpson was 
supposed to be dying, till Philip began on the subject one 
evening. Sylvia’s face suddenly flashed into glow and life. 

“ He’s dying, is he ? t’ earth is well rid on such a 
fellow ! ” 

“ Eh, Sylvie, that’s a hard speech o’ thine ! ” said Philip ; 

“ it gives me but poor heart to ask a favour of thee ! ” 

“ If it’s aught about Simpson,” replied she — and then she 
interrupted herself. “ But say on ; it were ill-mannered in me 
for t’ interrupt yo’.” 

“ Thou would be sorry to see him, I think, Sylvie. He 
cannot get over the way t’ folk met him and pelted him, 
when he came back fra’ York — and he’s weak and faint, and 
beside himself at times ; and he’ll lie a-dreaming, and a- 
fancying they’re all at him again, hooting, and yelling, and 
pelting him.” 

“ I’m glad on ’t,” said Sylvia ; ‘‘ it’s t’ best news I’ve 
heerd for many a day — he to turn again feyther, who gave 
him money for t’ get a lodging that night, when he’d no place 
to go to ! It were his evidence as hung feyther ; and he’s 
rightly punished for it now.” 

“ For a’ that— and he’s done a vast o’ wrong beside — he’s 
dying now, Sylvie ! ” 

“ Well 1 let him die — ^it’s t’ best thing he could do ! ” 

“ But he’s lying i’ such dree poverty — and niver a friend 
to go near him — niver a person to speak a kind word t’ 
him.” 

“ It seems as yo’ve been speaking wi’ him, at any rate,” 
said Sylvia, turning round on Philip. 

“ Ay. He sent for me by Nell Manning, th’ old beggar- 
woman, who sometimes goes in and makes his bed for him, 
poor wretch — he’s lying in t’ ruins of th’ cowhouse of th’ 
Mariners’ Arms, Sylvie.” 

“ Well ? ” said she, in the same hard, dry tone. 

“ And I went and fetched th’ parish doctor, for I thought 

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W edding-Raiment 

he’d ha’ died before my face — he was so wan, and ashen- 
grey, so thin, too, his eyes seem pushed out of his bony 
face.” 

“ That last time — feyther’s eyes were starting, wild-like, 
and as if he couldn’t meet ours, or bear the sight on our 
weeping.” 

It was a bad look-out for Philip's purpose ; but, after a 
pause, he went bravely on. 

“ He’s a poor dying creature, anyhow. T’ doctor said so, 
and told him he hadn’t many hours, let alone days, to live.” 

“ And he’d shrink fra’ dying, wi’ a’ his sins on his head ? ” 
said Sylvia, almost exultingly. 

Philip shook his head. “ He said this world had been 
too strong for him, and men too hard upon him ; he could 
niver do any good here, and he thought he should, maybe, 
find folks i’ t’ next place more merciful.” 

“ He’ll meet feyther theere,” said Sylvia, still hard and 
bitter. 

“ He’s a poor ignorant creature, and doesn’t seem to know 
rightly who he’s like to meet ; only he seems glad to get away 
fra’ Monkshaven folks ; he were really hurt, I am afeared, 
that night, Sylvie — and he speaks as if he’d had hard times 
of it ever since he were a child — and he talks as if he were 
really grieved for t’ part t’ lawyers made him take at th’ trial 
— they made him speak against his will, he says.” 

“ Couldn’t he ha’ bitten his tongue out ? ” asked Sylvia. 
“ It’s fine talking o’ sorrow, when the thing is done ! ” 

“ Well, anyhow he’s sorry now ; and he’s not long for -to 
live. And, Sylvie, he bid me ask thee, if, for the sake of all 
that is dear to thee, both here and i’ th’ world to come, thou’d 
go wi’ me, and just say to him that thou forgives him his 
part that day.” 

“ He sent thee on that errand, did he ? And thou could 
come and ask me ? I’ve a mind to break it off for iver wi’ 
thee, Philip.” She kept gasping, as if she could not say any 
more. Philip watched and waited, till her breath came, his 
own half-choked. 


351 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Thee and me was niver meant to go together. It’s not 
in me to forgive — I sometimes think it’s not in me to forget. 
I wonder, Philip, if thy feyther had done a kind deed — and a 
right deed — and a merciful deed — and some one as he’d been 
good to, even i’ t’ midst of his just anger, had gone and let on 
about him to th’ judge, as was trying to hang him — and had 
gotten him hanged — hanged dead, so that his wife were a 
widow, and his child fatherless for ivermore — I wonder if thy 
veins would run milk and water, so that thou could go and 
make friends, and speak soft wi’ him as had caused thy 
feyther’ s death ? ” 

“ It’s said in t’ Bible, Sylvie, that we’re to forgive.” 

“ Ay, there’s some things as I know I never forgive ; and 
there’s others as I can’t — and I won’t, either.” 

“ But, Sylvie, yo’ pray to be forgiven your trespasses, as 
you forgive them as trespass against you.” 

“ Well, if I’m to be taken at my word. I’ll noane pray at 
all ; that’s all. It’s well enough for them as has but little to 
forgive to use them words ; and I don’t reckon it’s kind, or 
pretty behaved in yo’, Philip, to bring up Scripture again’ me. 
Thou may go about thy business.” 

“ Thou’rt vexed with me, Sylvie ; and I’m not meaning 
but that it would go hard with thee to forgive him ; but I 
think it would be right and Christian-like i’ thee, and that 
thou’d find thy comfort in thinking on it after. If thou’d 
only go, and see his wistful eyes — I think they’d plead wi’ 
thee more than his words, or mine either.” 

“ I tell thee my flesh and blood wasn’t made for forgiving 
and forgetting. Once for all, thou must take my word. 
When I love I love, and when I hate I hate ; and him as 
has done harm to me, or to mine, I may keep fra’ striking 
or murdering, but I’ll niver forgive. I should be just a 
monster, fit to be shown at a fair, if I could forgive him as 
got feyther hanged.” 

Philip was silent, thinking what more he could urge. 

“ Yo’d better be off,” said Sylvia, in a minute or two. 
“ Yo’ and me has got wrong, and it’ll take a night’s sleep to 

352 


Wedding- Raiment 

set us right. Yo’ve said all yo’ can for him ; and perhaps it’s 
not yo’ as is to blame, but yo’r nature. But I’m put out wi’ 
thee, and want thee out o’ my sight for awhile.” 

One or two more speeches of this kind convinced him 
that it would be wise in him to take her at her word. He 
went back to Simpson, and found him, though still alive, 
past the understanding of any words of human forgiveness. 
Philip had almost wished he had not troubled or irritated 
Sylvia by urging the dying man’s request : the performance 
of this duty seemed now to have been such a useless office. 

After all, the performance of a duty is never a useless 
office, though we may not see the consequences, or they 
may be quite different to what we expected or calculated 
on. In the pause of active work, when daylight was 
done, and the evening shades came on, Sylvia had time to 
think; and her heart grew sad and soft, in comparison to 
what it had been when Philip’s urgency had called out all 
her angry opposition. She thought of her father — his 
sharp passions, his frequent forgiveness, or rather his for- 
getfulness, that he had even been injured. All Sylvia’s 
persistent or enduring qualities were derived from her 
mother, her impulses from her father. It was her dead 
father, whose example filled her mind this evening, in the soft 
and tender twilight. She did not say to herself that she 
would go and tell Simpson that she forgave him ; but 
she thought that, if Philip asked her again, she would 
do so. 

But, when she saw Philip again, he told her that Simpson 
was dead, and passed on from what he had reason to think 
would be an unpleasant subject to her. Thus he never 
learnt how her conduct might have been more gentle and 
relenting than her words — words which came up into his 
memory at a future time, with full measure of miserable 
significance. 

In general, Sylvia was gentle and good enough ; but 
Philip wanted her to be shy and tender with him, and this 
she was not. She spoke to him, her pretty eyes looking 

353 2 A 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

straight and composedly at him. She consulted him like the 
family-friend that he was ; she met him quietly in all the 
arrangements for the time of their marriage, which she 
looked upon more as a change of home, as the leaving of 
Haytersbank, as it would affect her. mother, than in any 
more directly personal way. Philip was beginning to feel, 
though not as yet to acknowledge, that the fruit he had so 
inordinately longed for was but of the nature of an apple of 
Sodom. 

Long ago, lodging in widow Bose’s garret, he had been in 
the habit of watching some pigeons that were kept by a 
neighbour ; the flock disported themselves on the steep tiled 
roofs just opposite to the attic window, and insensibly Philip 
grew to know their ways ; and one pretty, soft little dove was 
somehow perpetually associated in his mind with his idea of 
his cousin Sylvia. The pigeon would sit in one particular 
place, sunning herself, and puffing out her feathered breast, 
with all the blue- and rose-coloured lights gleaming in the 
morning rays, cooing softly to herself as she dressed her 
plumage. Philip fancied that he saw the same colours in a 
certain piece of shot silk — now in the shop ; and none other 
seemed to him so suitable for his darling’s wedding-dress. 
He carried enough to make a gown, and gave it to her one 
evening, as she sate on the grass just outside the house, half 
attending to her mother, half engaged in knitting stockings 
for her scanty marriage- outfit. He was glad that the sun 
was not gone down, thus allowing him to display the chang- 
ing colours in frdler light. Sylvia admired it duly; even 
Mrs. Eobson was pleased and attracted by the soft yet 
brilliant hues. Philip whispered to Sylvia — (he took delight 
in whispers — she, on the contrary, always spoke to him in 
her usual tone of voice) — 

“ Thou’lt look so pretty in it, sweetheart— o’ Thursday 
fortnight ! ” 

“ Thursday fortnight ! On the fourth, yo’re thinking on. 
But I cannot wear it then— I shall be i’ black.” 

“ Not on that day, sure ! ” said Philip. 

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Wedding-Raiment 

“ Why not ? There’s nought t’ happen on that day for t’ 
make me forget feyther. I couldn’t put off my black, Philip, 
— no, not to save my life ! Yon silk is just lovely, far too 
good for the likes of me, — and I’m sure I’m much beholden 
to yo’ ; and I’ll have it made up first of any gown, after last 
April come two years — but, oh, Philip, I cannot put off my 
mourning ! ” 

“Not for our wedding-day ! ” said Philip sadly. 

“No, lad, I really cannot. I’m just sorry about it, for I 
see thou’rt set upon it ; and thou’rt so kind and good, I some- 
times think I can niver be thankful enough to thee. When 
I think on what would ha’ become of mother and me, if we 
hadn’t had thee for a friend i’ need, I’m noane ungrateful, 
Philip ; tho’ I sometimes fancy thou’rt thinking I am.’’ 

“ I don’t want yo’ to be grateful, Sylvie,’’ said poor Philip, 
dissatisfied, yet unable to explain what he did want ; only 
knowing that there was something he lacked, yet fain would 
have had. 

As the marriage-day drew near, all Sylvia’s care seemed 
to be for her mother; all her anxiety was regarding the 
appurtenances of the home she was leaving. In vain Philip 
tried to interest her in details of his improvements or con- 
trivances, in the new home to which he was going to take her. 
She did not tell him ; but the idea of the house behind the 
shop was associated in her mind with two times of discomfort 
and misery. The first time she had gone into the parlour 
about which Philip spoke so much was at the time of the 
press-gang riot, when she had fainted from terror and excite- 
ment ; the second was on that night of misery when she and 
her mother had gone in to Monkshaven, to bid her father 
farewell, before he was taken to York ; in that room, on that 
night, she had first learnt something of ’the fatal peril in 
which he stood. She could not show the bright, shy curiosity 
about her future dwelling that is common enough with girls 
who are going to be married. All she could do was to restrain 
herself from sighing, and listen patiently, when he talked on 
the subject. In time he saw that she shrank from it ; so he 

355 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

held his peace, and planned and worked for her in silence 
— smiling to himself, as he looked on each completed arrange- 
ment for her pleasure or comfort ; and knowing well that her 
happiness was involved in what fragments of peace and 
material comfort might remain to her mother. 

The wedding-day drew near apace. It was Philip’s plan 
that, after they had been married in Kirk Moorside Church, 
he and his Sylvia, his cousin, his love, his wife, should go for 
the day to Eobin Hood’s Bay, returning in the evening to the 
house behind the shop in the market-place. There they 
were to find Bell Eobson installed in her future home ; for 
Haytersbank Farm was to be given up to the new tenant on 
the very day of the wedding. Sylvia would not be married 
any sooner ; she said that she must stay there till the very 
last ; and had said it with such determination that Philip had 
desisted from all urgency at once. 

He had told her that all should be settled for her mother’s 
comfort during their few hours’ absence ; otherwise Sylvia 
would not have gone at all. He told her he should ask 
Hester, who was always so good and kind— who never yet 
had said him nay, to go to church with them as bridesmaid — 
for Sylvia would give no thought or care to anything but her 
mother — and that they would leave her’ at Haytersbank as 
they returned from church ; she would manage Mrs. Eobson’s 
removal— she would do this — do that — do everything. Such 
friendly confidence had Philip in Hester’s willingness and 
tender skill. Sylvia acquiesced at length; and Philip took 
upon himself to speak to Hester on the subject. 

“ Hester,” said he, one day when he was preparing to go 
home, after the shop was closed ; “ would yo’ mind stopping 
a bit ? I should like to show yo’ the place now it’s done up ; 
and I’ve a favour to ask on yo’ besides.” He was so happy 
he did not see her shiver all over. She hesitated just a 
moment before she answered — 

“ I’ll stay, if thou wishes it, Philip. But I’m no judge o’ 
fashions and suchlike.” 

“ Thou’rt a judge o’ comfort, and that’s what I’ve been 

356 


W edding- Raiment 

aiming at. I were niver so comfortable in a’ my life as 
when I were a lodger at thy house,” said he, with brotherly 
tenderness in his tone. “ If my mind had been at ease, I 
could ha’ said I niver were happier in all my days than 
under thy roof ; and I know it were thy doing for the most 
part. So come along, Hester, and tell me if there’s aught 
more I can put in for Sylvie.” 

It might not have been a very appropriate text ; but, such 
as it was, the words, “ From him that would ask of thee turn 
not thou away,” seemed the only source of strength that 
could have enabled her to go patiently through the next 
half-hour. As it was, she unselfishly brought all her mind 
to bear upon the subject ; admired this, thought and decided 
upon that, as, one by one, Philip showed her all his altera- 
tions and improvements. Never was such a quiet little bit 
of unconscious and unrecognised heroism. She really ended 
by such a conquest of self that she could absolutely sym- 
pathise with the proud expectant lover, and had quenched 
all envy of the beloved, in sympathy with the delight she 
imagined Sylvia must experience when she discovered all 
these proofs of Philip’s fond consideration and care. But it 
was a great strain on the heart, that source of life ; and, 
when Hester returned into the parlour, after her deliberate 
survey of the house, she felt as weary and depressed in 
bodily strength as if she had gone through an illness of 
many days. She sate down on the nearest chair, and felt 
as though she never could rise again. Philip, joyous and 
content, stood near her talking. 

“ And, Hester,” said he, “ Sylvie has given me a message 
for thee — she says thou must be her bridesmaid — she’ll have 
none other.” 

“ I cannot,” said Hester, with sudden sharpness. 

“ Oh, yes, but yo’ must. It wouldn’t be like my wedding, 
if thou wasn’t there ; why, I’ve looked upon thee as a sister, 
iver since I came to lodge with thy mother.” 

Hester shook her head. Did her duty require her not to 
turn away from this asking, too ? Philip saw her reluctance, 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

and, by intuition rather than reason, he knew that what she 
would not do for gaiety or pleasure she would consent to, if 
by so doing she could render any service to another. So he 
went on. 

“ Besides, Sylvie and me has planned to go for our wed- 
ding-jaunt to Eobin Hood’s Bay. I ha’ been to engage a 
shandry this very morn, before t’ shop was opened; and 
there’s no one to leave wi’ my aunt. Th’ poor old body is 
sore crushed with sorrow, and is, as one may say, childish 
at times ; she’s to come down here, that we may find her 
when we come hack at night ; and there’s niver a one she’ll 
come with so willing and so happy as with thee, Hester. 
Sylvie and me has both said so.” 

Hester looked up in his face with her grave, honest eyes. 

“ I cannot go to church wi’ thee, Philip ; and thou must 
not ask me any further. But I’ll go betimes to Hayters- 
bank Farm ; and I’ll do my best to make the old lady happy, 
and to follow out thy directions in bringing her here before 
nightfall.” 

Philip was on the point of urging her afresh to go with 
them to church ; but something in her eyes brought a thought 
across his mind, as transitory as a breath passes over a 
looking-glass, and he desisted from his entreaty, and put 
away his thought as a piece of vain coxcombry, insulting to 
Hester. He passed rapidly on to all the careful directions 
rendered necessary by her compliance with the latter part of 
his request, coupling Sylvia’s name with his perpetually ; so 
that Hester looked upon her as a happy girl, as eager in 
planning all the details of her marriage as though no heavy 
shameful sorrow had passed over her head not many 
months ago. 

Hester did not see Sylvia’s white, dreamy, resolute face, 
that answered the solemn questions of the marriage-service 
in a voice that did not seem her own. Hester was not with 
them to notice the heavy abstraction that made the bride as 
if unconscious of her husband’s loving words, and then start 
and smile, and reply with a sad gentleness of tone. No! 

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W edding-Raiment 

Hester’s duty lay in conveying the poor widow and mother 
down from Haytersbank to the new home in Monkshaven ; 
and, for all Hester’s assistance and thoughtfulness, it was a 
dreary, painful piece of work — the poor old woman crying 
like a child, with bewilderment at the confused bustle which, 
in spite of all Sylvia’s careful forethought, could not be 
avoided on this final day, when her mother had to be carried 
away from the homestead over which she had so long pre- 
sided. But all this was as nothing to the distress which 
overwhelmed poor Bell Eobson, when she entered Philip’s 
house ; the parlour — the whole place — so associated with the 
keen agony she had undergone there, that the stab of 
memory penetrated through her deadened senses, and 
brought her back to misery. In vain Hester tried to con- 
sole her, by telling her the fact of Sylvia’s marriage with 
Philip in every form of words that occurred to her. Bell 
only remembered her husband’s fate, which filled up her 
poor wandering mind, and coloured everything: insomuch 
that, Sylvia not being at hand to reply to her mother’s cry 
for her, the latter imagined that her child, as well as her 
husband, was in danger of trial and death, and refused to 
be comforted by any endeavour of the patient sympathising 
Hester. In a pause of Mrs. Eobson’s sobs, Hester heard 
the welcome sound of the wheels of the returning shandry, 
bearing the bride and bridegroom home. It stopped at the 
door — an instant, and Sylvia, white as a sheet at the sound 
of her mother’s wailings, which she had caught, while yet at 
a distance, with the quick ears of love, came running in ; 
her mother feebly rose and tottered towards her, and fell into 
her arms, saying, “ Oh ! Sylvie, Sylvie, take me home, and 
away from this cruel place ! ” 

Hester could not but be touched with the young girl’s 
manner to her mother — as tender, as protecting as if their 
relation to each other had been reversed, and she was lulling 
and tenderly soothing a wayward, frightened child. She had 
neither eyes nor ears for any one, till her mother was sitting 
in trembling peace, holding her daughter’s hand tight in both 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

of hers, as if afraid of losing sight of her ; then Sylvia turned 
to Hester, and, with the sweet grace which is a natural gift 
to some happy people, thanked her ; in common words 
enough she thanked her, but in that nameless manner, and 
with that strange, rare charm, which made Hester feel as if 
she had never been thanked in all her life before ; and from 
that time forth she understood, if she did not always yield to, 
the unconscious fascination which Sylvia could exercise over 
others at times. 

Did it enter into Philip’s heart to perceive that he had 
wedded his long-sought bride in mourning-raiment, and that 
the first sounds which greeted them, as they approached their 
home, were those of weeping and waihng ? 


CHAPTEE XXX 

HAPPY DATS 

And now Philip seemed as prosperous as his heart could 
desire. The business flourished, and money beyond his 
moderate wants came in. As for himself, he required very 
little ; but he had always looked forward to placing his idol 
in a befitting shrine ; and means for this were now furnished 
to him. The dress, the comforts, the position he had desired 
for Sylvia, were all hers. She did not need to do a stroke of 
household- work, if she preferred to “ sit in her parlour and 
sew up a seam.” Indeed, Phoebe resented any interference 
in the domestic labour, which she had performed so long 
that she looked upon the kitchen as a private empire of her 
own. “ Mrs. Hepburn ” (as Sylvia was now termed) had a 
good dark silk gown-piece in her drawers, as well as the poor 
dove-coloured one, against the day when she chose to leave off 
mourning; and stuff for either grey or scarlet cloaks was 
hers at her bMding. 


360 


Happy Days 

What she cared for far more were the comforts with 
which it was in her power to surround her mother. In this 
Philip vied with her ; for, besides his old love and new pity 
for his aunt Bell, he never forgot how she had welcomed 
him to Haytersbank, and favoured his love to Sylvia, in the 
yearning days when he little hoped he should ever win his 
cousin to be his wife. But, even if he had not had these 
grateful and affectionate feelings towards the poor woman, 
he would have done much for her, if only to gain the sweet, 
rare smiles which his wife never bestowed upon him so freely 
as when she saw him attending to “ mother,” for so both of 
them now called Bell. For her creature comforts, her silk 
gowns, and her humble luxury, Sylvia did not care; Philip 
was almost annoyed at the indifference she often manifested 
to all his efforts to surround her with such things. It was 
even a hardship to her to leave off her country-dress, her 
uncovered hair, her linsey petticoat, and loose bed-gown, and 
to don a stiff and stately gown for her morning-dress. Sitting 
in the dark parlour at the back of the shop, and doing 
“ white work,” was much more wearying to her than running 
out into the fields to bring up the cows, or spinning wool, or 
making up butter. She sometimes thought to herself that 
it was a strange kind of life, where there were no outdoor 
animals to look after; “the ox and the ass” had hitherto 
come into all her ideas of humanity; and her care and 
gentleness had made the dumb creatures round her father’s 
home into mute friends, with loving eyes looking at her as if 
wistful to speak in words the grateful regard that she could 
read without the poor expression of language. 

She missed the free open air, the great dome of sky above 
the fields ; she rebelled against the necessity of “ dressing ” 
(as she called it) to go out, although she acknowledged that it 
was a necessity, where the first step beyond the threshold must 
be into a populous street. 

It is possible that Philip was right, at one time, when he 
had thought to win her by material advantages ; but the old 
vanities had been burnt out of her by the hot iron of acute 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

suffering. A great deal of passionate feeling still existed, con- 
cealed and latent ; but, at this period, it appeared as though 
she were indifferent to most things, and had lost the power 
of either hoping or fearing much. She was stunned into a 
sort of temporary numbness on most points ; those on which 
she was sensitive being such as referred to the injustice and 
oppression of her father’s death, or anything that concerned 
her mother. 

She was quiet, even to passiveness, in all her dealings with 
Philip ; he would have given not a little for some of the old 
bursts of impatience, the old pettishness, which, naughty as 
they were, had gone to form his idea of the former Sylvia. 
Once or twice, he was almost vexed with her for her docility ; 
he wanted her so much to have a will of her own, if only that 
he might know how to rouse her to pleasure by gratifying it. 
Indeed he seldom fell asleep at nights without his last thoughts 
being devoted to some little plan for the morrow that he 
fancied she would like ; and, when he wakened in the early 
dawn, he looked to see if she were indeed sleeping by his side, 
or whether it was not all a dream that he called Sylvia 
“ wife.” 

He was aware that her affection for him was not to be 
spoken of in the same way as his for her ; but he found much 
happiness in only being allowed to love and cherish her ; and, 
with the patient perseverance that was one remarkable feature 
in his character, he went on striving to deepen and increase 
her love, when most other men would have given up the 
endeavour, made themselves content with half a heart, and 
turned to some other object of attainment. All this time, 
Philip was troubled by a dream that recurred whenever he 
was over-fatigued, or otherwise not in perfect health. Over 
and over again, in this first year of married life, he dreamt this 
dream ; perhaps as many as eight or nine times, and it never 
varied. It was always of Kinraid’s return ; Kinraid was full 
of life in Philip’s dream, though in his waking-hours he could 
and did convince himself by all the laws of probability that 
his rival was dead. He never remembered the exact sequence 

362 


Happy Days 

of events in that terrible dream, after he had roused himself, 
with a fight and a struggle, from his feverish slumbers. He 
was generally sitting up in bed, when he found himself con- 
scious, his heart beating wildly, with a conviction of Kinraid’s 
living presence somewhere near him in the darkness. 
Occasionally, Sylvia was disturbed by his agitation, and would 
question him about his dreams, having, like most of her class 
at that time, great faith in their prophetic interpretation ; but 
Philip never gave her any truth in his reply. 

After all, and though he did not acknowledge it even to 
himself, the long- desired happiness was not so delicious and 
perfect as he had anticipated. Many have felt the same in 
their first year of married life ; but the faithful, patient 
nature that still works on, striving to gain love, and capable 
itself of steady love all the while, is a gift not given to all. 

For many weeks after their wedding, Kester never came 
near them. A chance word or two from Sylvia showed Philip 
that she had noticed this and regretted it ; and, accordingly, 
he made it his business, at the next leisure opportunity, to go to 
Haytersbank (never saying a word to his wife of his purpose), 
and seek out Kester. 

All the whole place was altered! It was new-white- 
. washed, new-thatched : the patches of colour in the sur- 
rounding ground were changed with altered tillage ; the great 
geraniums were gone from the window, and instead, was a 
smart knitted blind. Children played before the house door ; 
a dog lying on the step flew at Philip ; all was so strange that 
it was even the strangest thing of all for Kester to appear, 
where everything else was so altered ! 

Philip had to put up with a good deal of crabbed behaviour 
on the part of the latter, before he could induce Kester to 
promise to come down into the town and see Sylvia in her 
new home. 

Somehow, the visit when paid was but a failure ; at least, 
it seemed so at the time, though probably it broke the ice 
of restraint which was forming over the familiar intercourse 
between Kester and Sylvia. The old servant was daunted by 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

seeing Sylvia in a strange place, and stood, sleeking his hair 
down, and furtively looking about him, instead of seating 
himself on the chair Sylvia had so eagerly brought forward 
for him. 

Then his sense of the estrangement caused by their 
new positions infected her, and she began to cry pitifully, 
saying— 

“ Oh, Kester ! Kester ! tell me about Haytersbank ! Is 
it just as it used to be in feyther’s days ? ” 

“ Well, a cannot say as it is,” said Kester, thankful to 
have a subject started. “ They’n pleughed up t’ oud pasture- 
field, and are settin’ it for ’taters. They’re not for much 
cattle, isn’t Higginses. They’ll be for corn in t’ next year, 
a reckon, and they’ll just ha’ their pains for their payment. 
But they’re allays so pig-headed, is folk fra’ a distance.” 

So they went on discoursing on Haytersbank and the old 
days, till Bell Eobson, having finished her afternoon nap, 
came slowly downstairs to join them ; and, after that, the 
conversation became so broken up, from the desire of the 
other two to attend and reply, as best they could, to her 
fragmentary and disjointed talk, that Kester took his leave 
before long ; falling, as he did so, into the formal and un- 
naturally respectful manner which he had adopted on first 
coming in. 

But Sylvia ran after him, and brought him back from the 
door. 

“ To think of thy going away, Kester, without either bit 
or drink; nay, come back wi’ thee, and taste wine and 
cake.” 

Kester stood at the door, half shy, half pleased, while 
Sylvia, in all the glow and hurry of a young housekeeper’s 
hospitality, sought for the decanter of wine, and a wine-glass 
in the corner-cupboard, and hastily cut an immense wedge 
of cake, which she crammed into his hand, in spite of his 
remonstrances ; and then she poured him out an overflowing 
glass of wine, which Kester would far rather have gone with- 
out, as he knew manners too well to suppose that he might 

364 


Happy Days 

taste it without having gone through the preliminary ceremony 
of wishing the donor health and happiness. He stood, red 
and half-smihng, with his cake in one hand, his wine in the 
other, and then began — 

“ Long may ye live. 

Happy may ye be, 

And blest with a num’rous 
Pro-ge-ny. 

“ Theere, that’s po’try for yo’ as I larnt i’ my youth. But 
there’s a deal to be said as cannot be put inf po’try, an’ yet 
a cannot say it, somehow. It ’d tax a parson f say a’ as a’ve 
gotten i’ my mind. It’s like a heap o’ woo’ just after shearin’- 
time ; it’s worth a deal, but it tak’s a vast o’ combin’, an’ 
cardin’, an’ spinnin’, afore it can be made use on. If a were 
up to f use o’ words, a could say a mighty deal ; but some- 
how a’m tongue-teed when a come to want my words most ; 
so a’ll only just mak’ bold f say as a think yo’ve done pretty 
well for yo’rsel’, gotten a house-full o’ furniture ” (looking 
around him as he said this), “ an’ vittle an’ clothin’ for f axing, 
belike, an’ a home for f missus in her time o’ need; an’ 
mebbe not such a bad husband as a once thought yon man 
’ud mak’ ; a’m not above sayin’ as he’s, mebbe, better nor a 
took him for ; — so here’s to ye both, and wishin’ ye health 
and happiness, ay, and money to buy yo’ another, as country 
folk say.” 

Having ended his oration, much to his own satisfaction, 
Kester tossed off his glass of wine, smacked his lips, wiped 
his mouth with the back of his hand, pocketed his cake, and 
made off. 

That night Sylvia spoke of his visit to her husband. 
Philip never said how he himself had brought it to pass, nor 
did he name the fact that he had heard the old man come in, 
just as he himself had intended going into the parlour for tea, 
but had kept away, as he thought Sylvia and Kester would 
most enjoy their interview undisturbed. And Sylvia felt as 
if her husband’s silence was unsympathising, and shut up 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

the feelings that were just beginning to expand towards him. 
She sank again into the listless state of indifference from 
which nothing but some reference to former days, or present 
consideration for her mother, could rouse her. 

Hester was almost surprised at Sylvia’s evident liking 
for her. By slow degrees, Hester was learning to love the 
woman, whose position as Philip’s wife she would have 
envied so keenly, had she not been so truly good and pious. 
But Sylvia seemed as though she had given Hester her 
whole affection all at once. Hester could not understand 
this, while she was touched and melted by the trust it 
implied. For one thing, Sylvia remembered and regretted 
her harsh treatment of Hester the rainy, stormy night on 
which the latter had come to Haytersbank to seek her and 
her mother, and bring them into Monkshaven to see the 
imprisoned father and husband. Sylvia had been struck 
with Hester’s patient endurance of her rudeness — a rudeness 
which she was conscious that she herself should have imme- 
diately and vehemently resented. Sylvia did not understand 
how a totally different character from hers might immediately 
forgive the anger she could not forget ; and, because Hester 
had been so meek at the time, Sylvia, who knew how passing 
and transitory was her own anger, thought that all was 
forgotten ; while Hester believed that the words, which she 
could not herself have uttered, except under deep provocation, 
meant much more than they did, and admired and wondered 
at Sylvia for having so entirely conquered her anger against 
her. 

Again, the two different women were divergently affected 
by the extreme fondness which Bell had shown towards 
Hester, ever since Sylvia’s wedding-day. Sylvia, who had 
always received more love from others than she knew what 
to do with, had the most entire faith in her own supremacy 
in her mother’s heart; though at times Hester would do 
certain things more to the poor old woman’s satisfaction. 
Hester, who had craved for the affection which had been 
withheld from her, and had from that one circumstance 

366 


Happy Days 

become distrustful of her own power of inspiring regard, 
while she exaggerated the delight of being beloved, feared 
lest Sylvia should become jealous of her mother’s open 
display of great attachment and occasional preference for 
Hester. But such a thought never entered Sylvia’s mind. 
She was more thankful than she knew how to express 
towards any one who made her mother happy ; as has been 
already said, the contributing to Bell Eobson’s pleasures 
earned Philip more of his wife’s smiles than anything else. 
And Sylvia threw her whole heart into the words and 
caresses she lavished on Hester, whenever poor Mrs. Eobson 
spoke of the goodness and kindness of the latter. Hester 
attributed more virtue to these sweet words and deeds of 
gratitude than they deserved ; they did not imply in Sylvia 
any victory over evil temptation, as they would have done 
in Hester. 

It seemed to be Sylvia’s fate to captivate more people 
than she cared to like hack again. She turned the heads of 
John and Jeremiah Foster, who could hardly congratulate 
Philip enough on his choice of a wife. 

They had been prepared to be critical on one who had 
interfered with their favourite project of a marriage between 
Philip and Hester ; and, though full of compassion for the 
cruelty of Daniel Eobson’s fate, they were too completely 
men of business not to have some apprehension lest the 
connection of Philip Hepburn with the daughter of a man 
who was hanged might injure the shop over which both his 
and their names appeared. But all the possible proprieties 
demanded that they should pay attention to the bride of 
their former shopman and present successor ; and the very 
first visitors whom Sylvia had received after her marriage 
had been John and Jeremiah Foster, in their Sabbath-day 
clothes. They found her in the parlour (so familiar to both 
of them), clear-starching her mother’s caps, which had to be 
got up in some particular fashion that Sylvia was afraid of 
dictating to Phoebe. 

She was a little disturbed at her visitors discovering her 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

at this employment ; but she was on her own ground, and 
that gave her self-possession ;• and she welcomed the two old 
men so sweetly and modestly, and looked so pretty and 
feminine, and, besides, so notable in her handiwork, that 
she conquered all their prejudices at one blow ; and their 
first thought on leaving the shop was how to do her honour, 
by inviting her to a supper-party at Jeremiah Foster’s house. 

Sylvia was dismayed when she was bidden to this wedding- 
feast, and Philip had to use all his authority, though tenderly, 
to make her consent to go at all. She had been to merry 
country-parties like the Oorneys’, and to bright haymaking 
romps in the open air ; but never to a set stately party at a 
friend’s house. 

She would fain have made attendance on her mother an 
excuse ; but Philip knew he must not listen to any such 
plea, and applied to Hester in the dilemma, asking her to 
remain with Mrs. Eobson, while he and Sylvia went out 
visiting ; and Hester had willingly, nay eagerly, consented — 
it was much more to her taste than going out. 

So Philip and Sylvia set out, arm-in-arm, down Bridge 
Street, across the bridge, and then clambered up the hill. 
On the way, he gave her the directions she asked for about 
her behaviour as bride and most honoured guest ; and alto- 
gether succeeded, against his intention and will, in frighten- 
ing her so completely as to the grandeur and importance of 
the occasion, and the necessity of remembering certain set 
rules, and making certain set speeches and attending to them, 
when the right time came, that, if any one so naturally 
graceful could have been awkward, Sylvia would have been 
so that night. 

As it was, she sate, pale and weary-looking, on the very 
edge of her chair ; she uttered the formal words which Philip 
had told her were appropriate to the occasion, and she 
heartily wished herself safe at home and in bed. Yet she left 
but one unanimous impression on the company, when she 
went away, namely, that she was the prettiest and best- 
behaved woman they had ever seen, and that Philip Hepburn 

368 


Happy Days 

had done well in choosing her, felon’s daughter though she 
might be. 

Both the hosts had followed her into the lobby, to help 
Philip in cloaking her and putting on her patterns. They 
were full of old-fashioned compliments and good wishes ; 
one speech of theirs came up to her memory in future 
years — 

“ Now, Sylvia Hepburn,” said Jeremiah, “ I’ve known 
thy husband long, and I don’t say but what thou hast done 
well in choosing him ; but, if he ever neglects or ill-uses thee, 
come to me, and I’ll give him a sound lecture on his conduct. 
Mind, I’m thy friend from this day forrards, and ready to 
take thy part against him ! ” 

Philip smiled, as if the day would never come when he 
should neglect or ill-use his darling ; Sylvia smiled a little, 
without much attending to, or caring for, the words that 
were detaining her, tired as she was; John and Jeremiah 
chuckled over the joke ; but the words came up again in after 
days, as words idly spoken sometimes do. 

Before the end of that first year, Philip had learnt to 
be jealous of his wife’s new love for Hester. To the latter 
Sylvia gave the free confidence on many things which Philip 
fancied she withheld from him. A suspicion crossed his 
mind, from time to time, that Sylvia might speak of her 
former lover to Hester. It would be not unnatural, he 
thought, if she did so, believing him to be dead ; but the idea 
irritated him. 

He was entirely mistaken, however ; Sylvia, with all her 
apparent frankness, kept her deep sorrows to herself. She 
never mentioned her father’s name, though he was con- 
tinually present to her mind. Nor did she speak of Kinraid 
to human being; though, for his sake, her voice softened 
when, by chance, she spoke to a passing sailor, and for his 
sake her eyes lingered on such men longer than on others, 
trying to discover in them something of the old familiar gait ; 
and, partly for his dead sake, and partly because of the 
freedom of the outlook and the freshness of the air, she was 

369 2 B 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

glad occasionally to escape from the comfortable imprison- 
ment of her “ parlour,” and the close streets around the 
market-place, and to mount the cliffs and sit on the turf, 
gazing abroad over the wide still expanse of the open sea ; 
for, at that height, even breaking waves only looked like 
broken lines of white foam on the blue watery plain. 

She did not want any companion on these rambles, which 
had somewhat of the delight of stolen pleasures ; for all the 
other respectable matrons and town-dwellers whom she knew 
were content to have always a business object for their walk, 
or else to stop at home in their own households ; and Sylvia 
was rather ashamed of her own yearnings for solitude and 
open air, and the sight and sound of the mother-like sea. 
She used to take off her hat, and sit there, her hands clasp- 
ing her knees, the salt air hfting her bright curls, gazing at 
the distant horizon over the sea, in a sad dreaminess of 
thought ; if she had been asked on what she meditated, she 
could not have told you. 

But, by-and-by, the time came when she was a prisoner 
in the house ; a prisoner in her room, lying in bed with a 
little baby by her side — her child, Philip’s child. His pride, 
his delight knew no bounds ; this was a new fast tie between 
them ; this would reconcile her to the kind of life that, with 
all its respectability and comfort, was so different from what 
she had lived before, and which Philip had often perceived 
that she felt to be dull and restraining. He already began 
to trace in the little girl, only a few days old, the lovely 
curves that he knew so well by heart in the mother’s face. 
Sylvia, too, pale, still, and weak, was very happy ; yes, really 
happy for the first time since her irrevocable marriage. For 
its irrevocableness had weighed much upon her, with a sense 
of dull hopelessness ; she felt all Phihp’s kindness, she was 
grateful to him for his tender regard towards her mother, 
she was learning to love him, as well as to like and respect 
him. She did not know what else she could have done but 
marry so true a friend, and she and her mother so friendless ; 
but, at the same time, it was like lead on her morning-spirits, 

370 


Happy Days 

when she awoke and remembered that the decision was 
made, the deed was done, the choice taken, which comes to 
most people but once in their lives. Now, the little baby 
came in upon this state of mind like a ray of sunlight into a 
gloomy room. 

Even her mother was rejoiced and proud * even with her 
crazed brain and broken heart, the sight of sweet, peaceful 
infancy brought light to her. All the old ways of holding a 
baby, of hushing it to sleep, of tenderly guarding its little 
limbs from injury, came back, like the habits of her youth, 
to Bell ; and she was never so happy or so easy in her mind, 
or so sensible and connected in her ideas, as when she had 
Sylvia’s baby in her arms. 

It was a pretty sight to see, however familiar to all of us 
such things may be — the pale, worn old woman, in her quaint, 
old-fashioned country dress, holding the little infant on her 
knees, looking at its open, unspeculative eyes, and talking 
the little language to it as though it could understand ; the 
father on his knees, kept prisoner by a small, small finger 
curled round his strong and sinewy one, and gazing at the 
tiny creature with wondering idolatry ; the young mother, fair, 
pale, and smiling, propped up on pillows in order that she, 
too, might see the wonderful babe ; it was astonishing how 
the doctor could come and go without being drawn into the 
admiring vortex, and could look at this baby, just as if 
babies came into the world every day ! 

“ Philip,” said Sylvia one night, as he sate as still as a 
mouse in her room, imagining her to be asleep. He was by 
her bedside in a moment. 

“ I’ve been thinking what she’s to be called. Isabella, 
after mother ; and what were yo’r mother’s name ? ” 

“ Margaret,” said he. 

“ Margaret Isabella ; Isabella Margaret. Mother’s called 
Bell. Baby might be called Bella.” 

“ I could ha’ wished her to be called after thee.” 

She made a little impatient movement. 

“Nay; Sylvia’s not a lucky name. Best be called after 

371 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

thy mother and mine. And I want for to ask Hester to be 
godmother.” 

“Anything thou likes, sweetheart. Shall we call her 
Eose, after Hester Eose ? ” 

“No, no!” said Sylvia; “she mun be called after my 
mother, or thine, or both. I should like her to be called 
Bella, after mother, because she’s so fond of baby.” 

“ Anything to please thee, darling.” 

“ Don’t say that as if it didn’t signify ; there’s a deal in 
having a pretty name,” said Sylvia, a little annoyed. “ I ha’ 
allays hated being called Sylvia. It were after father’s 
mother, Sylvia Steele.” 

“ I niver thought any name in a’ the world so sweet and 
pretty as Sylvia,” said Philip fondly ; but she was too much 
absorbed in her own thoughts to notice either his manner or 
his words. 

“ There, yo’ll not mind if it is Bella ; because, yo’ see, my 
mother is alive to be pleased by its being named after her ; 
and Hester may be godmother ; and I’ll ha’ t’ dove-coloured 
silk as yo’ gave me afore we were married made up into a 
cloak for it to go to church in.” 

“I got it for thee,” said Philip, a little disappointed. 
“ It’ll be too good for the baby.” 

“ Eh ! but I’m so careless, I should be spilling something 
on it 1 But, if thou got it for me, I cannot find i’ my heart 
for t’ wear it on baby ; and I’ll have it made into a christening 
gown for mysel’. But I’ll niver feel at any ease in it, for 
fear of spoiling it.” 

“ Well, an’ if thou does spoil it, love. I’ll get thee another. 
I make account of riches only for thee ; that I may be able 
to get thee whativer thou’s a fancy for, for either thysel’, or 
thy mother.” 

She lifted her pale face from her pillow, and put up her 
bps to kiss him for these words. 

Perhaps, on that day, Philip reached the zenith of his life’s 
happiness. 


372 


Evil Omens 


CHAPTER XXXI 

EVIL OMENS 

The first step in Philip’s declension happened in this way. 
Sylvia had made rapid progress in her recovery; but now 
she seemed at a stationary point of weakness ; wakeful nights 
succeeding to languid days. Occasionally, she caught a little 
sleep in the afternoons ; but she usually awoke startled and 
feverish. 

One afternoon, Philip had stolen upstairs to look at her 
and his child ; but the efforts he made at careful noiselessness 
made the door creak on its hinges as he opened it. The 
woman employed to nurse her had taken the baby into 
another room, that no sound might rouse her from her 
slumber ; and Philip would probably have been warned 
against entering the chamber where his wife lay sleeping, had 
he been perceived by the nurse. As it was, he opened the 
door, made a noise, and Sylvia started up, her face all one 
flush, her eyes wild and uncertain ; she looked about her as 
if she did not know where she was ; pushed the hair off her 
hot forehead; all which actions Philip saw, dismayed and 
regretful. But he kept still, hoping that she would lie 
down and compose herself. Instead, she stretched out her 
arms imploringly, and said, in a voice full of yearning and 
tears — 

“ Oh ! Charley ! come to me — come to me ! ” and then, as 
she more fully became aware of the place where she was, 
and of her actual situation, she sank back and feebly began 
to cry. Philip’s heart boiled within him ; any man’s would 
have, under the circumstances ; but he had the sense of 
guilty concealment to aggravate the intensity of his feelings. 
Her weak cry after another man, too, irritated him ; partly 
through his anxious love, which made him wise to know 
how much physical harm she was doing herself. At this 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

moment he stirred, or unintentionally made some sound : she 
started up afresh, and called out — 

“ Oh, who’s theere ? Do, for God’s sake, tell me who yo 
are ! ” 

“ It’s me,” said Philip, coming forwards, striving to keep 
down the miserable complication of love and jealousy, and 
remorse and anger, that made his heart beat so wildly, and 
almost took him out of himself. Indeed, he must have been 
quite beside himself for the time, or he could never have gone 
on to utter the unwise, cruel words he did. But she spoke 
first, in a distressed and plaintive tone of voice. 

“Oh, Philip, I’ve been asleep, and yet I think I was 
awake ! And I saw Charley Kinraid as plain as iver I see 
thee now, and he wasn’t drowned at all. I’m sure he’s alive 
somewheere ; he were so clear and life-like. Oh ! what shall 
I do ? what shall I do ? ” 

She wrung her hands in feverish distress. Urged by 
passionate feelings of various kinds, and also by his desire to 
quench the agitation which was doing her harm, Philip spoke, 
hardly knowing what he said. 

“ Kinraid’ s dead, I tell yo’, Sylvie ! And what kind of a 
woman are yo’, to go dreaming of another man i’ this way, 
and taking on so about him, when yo’re a wedded wife, with 
a child as yo’ve borne to another man ? ” 

In a moment, he could have bitten out his tongue. She 
looked at him with the mute reproach which some of us see 
(God help us !) in the eyes of the dead, as they come before 
our sad memories in the night season ; looked at him with 
such a solemn, searching look, never saying a word of reply 
or defence. Then she lay down, motionless and silent. He 
had been instantly stung with remorse for his speech ; the 
words were not beyond his lips, when an agony had entered 
his heart ; but her steady, dilated eyes had kept him dumb 
and motionless, as if by a spell. 

Now, he rushed to the bed on which she lay, and half 
knelt, half threw himself upon it, imploring her to forgive 
him; regardless for the time of any evil consequences to 

374 


Evil Omens 

her, it seemed as if he must have her pardon — her relenting 
— at any price ; even if they both died in the act of reconcilia- 
tion. But she lay speechless, and, as far as she could be, 
motionless, the bed trembling under her with the quivering 
she could not still. 

Philip’s wild tones caught the nurse’s ears ; and she 
entered, full of the dignified indignation of wisdom. 

“Are yo’ for killing yo’r wife, measter?” she asked. 
“ She’s noane so strong as she can bear flytin’ and scoldin’, 
nor will she be for many a week to come. Go down wi’ ye, 
and leave her i’ peace, if yo’re a man as can be called a 
man ! ” 

Her anger was rising, as she caught sight of Sylvia’s 
averted face. It was flushed crimson, her eyes full of intense 
emotion of some kind, her lips compressed ; but an involuntary 
twitching overmastering her resolute stillness from time to 
time. Philip, who did not see the averted face, nor under- 
stand the real danger in which he was placing his wife, felt 
as though he must have one word, one responsive touch of 
the hand which lay passive in his, which was not even drawn 
away from the kisses with which he covered it, any more 
than if it had been an impassive stone. The nurse had 
fairly to take him by the shoulders and turn him out of the 
room. 

In half an hour, the doctor had to be summoned. Of 
course, the nurse gave him her version of the events of the 
afternoon, with much animus against Philip ; and the doctor 
thought it his duty to have some very serious conversation 
with him. 

“ I do assure you, Mr. Hepburn, that, in the state your 
wife has been in for some days, it was little less than madness 
on your part to speak to her about anything that could give 
rise to strong emotion.” 

“ It was madness, sir ! ” replied Philip, in a low, miserable 
tone of voice. The doctor’s heart was touched, in spite of 
the nurse’s accusations against the scolding husband. Yet 
the danger was now too serious for him to mince matters. 

375 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ I must tell you that I cannot answer for her life, unless 
the greatest precautions are taken on your part, and unless 
the measures I shall use have the effect I wish for in the 
next twenty-four hours. She is on the verge of a brain- 
fever. Any allusion to the subject which has been the final 
cause of the state in which she now is must be most cautiously 
avoided, even to a chance word which may bring it to her 
memory.” 

And so on ; but Philip seemed to hear only this : then he 
might not express contrition, or sue for pardon ; he must go 
on, unforgiven, through all this stress of anxiety ; and, even if 
she recovered, the doctor warned him of the undesirableness 
of recurring to what had passed ! 

Heavy, miserable times of endurance and waiting have to 
be passed through by all during the course of their lives ; 
and Philip had his share of such seasons, when the heart, 
and the will, and the speech, and the limbs, must be bound 
down with strong resolution to patience. 

For many days, nay, for weeks, he was forbidden to see 
Sylvia, as the very sound of his footstep brought on a recur- 
rence of the fever and convulsive movement. Yet she 
seemed, from questions she feebly asked the nurse, to have 
forgotten all that had happened on the day of her attack, 
from the time when she dropped off to sleep. But how 
much she remembered of after occurrences, no one could 
ascertain. She was quiet enough when, at length, Philip 
was allowed to see her. But he was half jealous of his 
child, when he watched how she could smile at it, while 
she never changed a muscle of her face at all he could do 
or say. 

And of a piece with this extreme quietude and reserve was 
her behaviour to him, when at length she had fully recovered, 
and was able to go about the house again. Philip thought 
many a time of the words she had used long before — before 
their marriage. Ominous words they were — 

“ It’s not in me to forgive; I sometimes think it’s not in 
me to forget.” 


376 


Evil Omens 

Philip was tender, even to humility, in his conduct towards 
her. But nothing stirred her from her fortress of reserve. 
And he knew she was so different ; he knew how loving, 
nay, passionate, was her nature — ^vehement, demonstrative — 
oh ! how could he stir her once more into expression, even if 
the first show or speech she made was of anger ? Then he 
tried being angry with her himself ; he was sometimes unjust 
to her consciously and of a purpose, in order to provoke her 
into defending herself, and appealing against his unkindness. 
He only seemed to drive her love away still more. 

If any one had known all that was passing in that house- 
hold, while yet the story of it was not ended, nor, indeed, 
come to its crisis, their hearts would have been sorry for the 
man who lingered long at the door of the room in which his 
wife sate, cooing and talking to her baby, and sometimes 
laughing back to it, or who was soothing the querulousness 
of faihng age with every possible patience of love — sorry for 
the poor listener, who was hungering for the profusion of 
tenderness thus scattered on the senseless air, yet only by 
stealth caught the echoes of what ought to have been his. 

It was so difficult to complain, too ; impossible, in fact. 
Everything that a wife could do from duty she did ; but the 
love seemed to have fled, and, in such cases, no reproaches or 
complaints can avail to bring it back. So reason outsiders, 
and are convinced of the result, before the experiment is 
made. But Philip could not reason, or could not yield to 
reason ; and so he complained and reproached. She did not 
much answer him ; but he thought that her eyes expressed 
the old words — 

“ It’s not in me to forgive ; I sometimes think it’s not in 
me to forget.” 

However, it is an old story, an ascertained fact, that, 
even in the most tender and stable masculine natures, at the 
supremest seasons of their lives, there is room for other 
thoughts and passions than such as are connected with love. 
Even with the most domestic and affectionate men, their 
emotions seem to be kept in a cell, distinct and away from 

377 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

their actual lives. Philip had other thoughts and other 
occupations than those connected with his wife during all 
this time. 

An uncle of his mother’s, a Cumberland “ statesman, of 
whose existence he was barely conscious, died about this 
time, leaving to his unknown great-nephew four or five 
hundred pounds, which put him at once in a different 
position with regard to his business. Henceforward, his 
ambition was roused — such humble ambition as befitted a 
shopkeeper in a country- town, sixty or seventy years ago. To 
be respected by the men around him had always been an 
object with him, and was, perhaps, becoming more so than 
ever now, as a sort of refuge from his deep, sorrowful morti- 
fication in other directions. He was greatly pleased at 
being made a sidesman ; and, in preparation for the further 
honour of being churchwarden, he went regularly twice a 
day to church on Sundays. There was enough religious feel- 
ing in him to make him disguise the worldly reason for such 
conduct from himself. He believed that he went because he 
thought it right to attend public worship in the parish church 
whenever it was offered up ; but it may be questioned of him, 
as of many others, how far he would have been as regular in 
attendance in a place where he was not known. With this, 
however, we have nothing to do. The fact was that he went 
regularly to church ; and he wished his wife to accompany 
him to the pew, newly-painted, with his name on the door, 
where he sate in full sight of the clergyman and congregation. 

Sylvia had never been in the habit of such regular 
church-going ; and she felt it a hardship, and slipped out of 
the duty as often as ever she could. In her unmarried days, 
she and her parents had gone annually to the mother- church 
of the parish in which Haytersbank was situated : on the 
Monday succeeding the Sunday next after the Komish Saint’s 
Day to whom the church was dedicated there was a great 
feast or wake held ; and, on the Sunday, all the parishioners 
came to church from far and near. Frequently, too, in the 
course of the year, Sylvia would accompany one or other of 

378 


Evil Omens 

her parents to Scarby Moorside afternoon -service — when 
the hay was got in, and the corn not ready for cutting, or 
the cows were dry and there was no afternoon, milking. 
Many clergymen were languid in those days, and did not too 
curiously inquire into the reasons which gave them such 
small congregations in country parishes. 

Now she was married, this weekly church-going which 
Philip seemed to expect from her became a tie and a small 
hardship, which connected itself with her life of respectability 
and prosperity. “ A crust of bread and liberty ” was much 
more accordant to Sylvia’s nature than plenty of creature 
comforts and many restraints. Another wish of Philip’s, 
against which she said no word, but constantly rebelled in 
thought and deed, was his desire that the servant he had 
engaged during the time of her illness to take charge of the 
baby, should always carry it, whenever it was taken out for a 
walk. Sylvia often felt, now she was strong, as if she would 
far rather have been without the responsibility of having this 
nurse-maid, of whom she was, in reality, rather afraid. The 
good side of it was that it set her at liberty to attend to her 
mother at times when she would have been otherwise 
occupied with her baby ; but Bell required very little from 
any one : she was easily pleased, unexacting, and methodical 
even in her dotage; preserving the quiet, undemonstrative 
habits of her earlier life, even now that the faculty of reason, 
which had been at the basis of the formation of such habits, 
was gone. She took great delight in watching the baby, and 
was pleased to have it in her care for a short time ; but she 
dozed so much that it prevented her having any strong wish 
on the subject. 

So Sylvia contrived to get her baby as much as possible 
to herself, in spite of the nurse-maid; and, above all, she 
would carry it out, softly cradled in her arms, warm pillowed 
on her breast, and bear it to the freedom and solitude of the 
sea-shore on the west side of the town, where the cliffs were 
not so high, and there was a good space of sand and shingle 
at all low tides. 


379 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Once here, she was as happy as she ever expected to be 
in this world. The fresh sea-breeze restored something of the 
colour of former days to her cheeks, the old buoyancy to her 
spirits ; here she might talk her heart-full of loving nonsense 
to her baby ; here it was all her own ; no father to share in 
it, no nurse-maid to dispute the wisdom of anything she did 
with it. She sang to it, she tossed it; it crowed and it 
laughed back again, till both were weary ; and then she 
would sit down on a broken piece of rock, and fall to gazing 
on the advancing waves catching the sunlight on their crests, 
advancing, receding, for ever and for ever, as they had done all 
her hfe long — as they did when she had walked with them 
that once by the side of Kinraid: those cruel waves that, 
forgetful of the happy lovers’ talk by the side of their waters, 
had carried ,one away, and drowned him deep till he was 
dead. Every time she sate down to look at the sea, this 
process of thought was gone through up to this point ; the 
next step would, she knew, bring her to the question she 
dared not, must not ask. He was dead ; he must be dead ; 
for was she not Philip’s wife ? Then came up the recollection 
of Philip’s speech, never forgotten, only buried out of sight : 
“ What kind of a woman are yo’, to go on dreaming of 
another man, and yo’ a wedded wife ? ” She used to shudder, 
as if cold steel had been plunged into her warm, living body, 
as she remembered these words — cruel words harmlessly 
provoked. They were too much associated with physical 
pains to be dwelt upon ; only their memory was always 
there. She paid for these happy rambles with her baby by 
the depression which awaited her on her re -entrance into the 
dark, confined house that was her home ; its very fulness of 
comfort was an oppression. Then, when her husband saw 
her pale and fatigued, he was annoyed, and sometimes up- 
braided her for doing' what was so unnecessary as to load 
herself with her child. She knew full well it was not that 
that caused her weariness. By-and-by, when he inquired 
and discovered that all these walks were taken in one 
direction, out towards the sea, he grew jealous of her love for 

380 


Evil Omens 

the inanimate ocean. Was it connected in her mind with 
the thought of Kinraid ? Why did she so perseveringly, in 
wind or cold, go out to the sea-shore ; the western side, too, 
where, if she went but far enough, she would come upon the 
mouth of the Haytersbank gully, the point at which she had 
last seen Kinraid ? Such fancies haunted Philip’s mind for 
hours, after she had acknowledged the direction of her walks. 
But he never said a word that could distinctly tell her he 
disliked her going to the sea; otherwise she would have 
obeyed him in this, as in everything else; for absolute 
obedience to her husband seemed to be her rule of life at this 
period — obedience to him who would so gladly have obeyed 
her smallest wish, had she but expressed it ! She never knew 
that Philip had any painful association with the particular 
point on the sea-shore that she instinctively avoided, both 
from a consciousness of wifely duty, and also because the 
sight of it brought up so much sharp pain. 

Philip used to wonder if the dream that preceded her 
illness was the suggestive cause that drew her so often to the 
shore. Her illness, consequent upon that dream, had filled 
his mind, so that for many months he himself had had no 
haunting vision of Kinraid to disturb his slumbers. But now 
the old dream, of Kinraid’s actual presence by Philip’s bed- 
side' began to return with fearful vividness. Night after night 
it recurred; each time with some new touch of reality, and 
close approach ; till it was as if the fate that overtakes all 
men were then, even then, knocking at his door. 

In his business Philip prospered. Men praised him, 
because he did well to himself. He had the perseverance, 
the capability for head-work and calculation, the steadiness 
and general forethought which might have made him a great 
merchant, if he had lived in a large city. Without any effort 
of his own, almost, too, without Ooulson’s being aware of it, 
Philip was now in the position of superior partner : the one 
to suggest and arrange, while Coulson only carried out the 
plans that emanated from Philip. The whole work of life 
was suited to the man ; he did not aspire to any different 

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position, only to the full development of the capabilities of 
that which he already held. He had originated several fresh 
schemes with regard to the trajB&c of the shop ; and his old 
masters, with all their love of tried ways and distrust of 
everything new, had been candid enough to confess that their 
successors’ plans had resulted in success. “ Their suc- 
cessors’ ! ” Philip was content with having the power when 
the exercise of it was required, and never named his own 
important share in the new improvements. Possibly, if he 
had, Coulson’s vanity might have taken the alarm, and he 
might not have been so acquiescent for the future. As it 
was, he forgot his own subordinate share, and always used 
the imperial “ we,” “ we thought,” “it struck us,” &c. 


CHAPTEE XXXII 

BESCUED FBOM THE WAVES 

Meanwhile Hester came and went as usual ; in so quiet 
and methodical a way, with so even and undisturbed a 
temper, that she was almost forgotten when everything 
went well in the shop or household. She was a star, the 
brightness of which was only recognised in times of dark- 
ness. She was herself almost surprised at her own increasing 
regard for Sylvia. She had not thought she should ever be 
able to love the woman who had been such a laggard in 
acknowledging Philip’s merits ; and, from all she had ever 
heard of Sylvia before she came to know her, from the angry 
words with which Sylvia had received her when she had first 
gone to Haytersbank Farm, Hester had intended to remain 
on friendly terms, but to avoid intimacy. But her kindness 
to Bell Eobson had won both the mother’s and daughter’s 
hearts j and, in spite of herself, certainly against her own 

382 


Rescued from the Waves 

mother’s advice, she had become the familiar friend and 
welcome guest of the household. 

Now, the very change in Sylvia’s whole manner and ways, 
which grieved and vexed Philip, made his wife the more 
attractive to Hester. Brought up among Quakers, although 
not one herself, she admired and respected the staidness and 
outward peacefulness common amongst the young women of 
that sect. Sylvia, whom she had expected to find volatile, 
talkative, vain, and wilful, was quiet and still, as if she had 
been born a Friend ; she seemed to have no will of her own ; 
she served her mother and child for love ; she obeyed her 
husband in all things and never appeared to pine after gaiety 
or pleasure. And yet, at times, Hester thought, or rather a 
flash came across her mind, as if all things were not as right 
as they seemed. Philip looked older, more care-worn ; nay, 
even Hester was obhged to allow to herself that she had 
heard him speak to his wife in sharp, aggrieved tones. 
Innocent Hester ! she could not understand how the very 
qualities she so admired in Sylvia were just what were so 
foreign to her nature that the husband, who had known her 
from a child, felt what an unnatural restraint she was 
putting upon herself, and would have hailed petulant words 
or wilful actions with an unspeakable thankfulness for relief. 

One day — it was in the spring of 1798 — Hester was 
engaged to stay to tea with the Hepburns, in order that, after 
that early meal, she might set to again in helping Philip and 
Coulson to pack away the winter clothes and flannels, for 
which there was no longer any use. The tea-time was half- 
past four ; about four o’clock a heavy April shower came on, 
the hail pattering against the window-panes so as to awaken 
Mrs. Eobson from her afternoon’s nap. She came down the 
corkscrew stairs, and found Phoebe in the parlour arranging 
the tea-things. 

Phoebe and Mrs. Eobson were better friends than 
Phoebe and her young mistress ; and so they began to talk a 
little together in a comfortable, familiar way. Once or twice, 
Philip looked in, as if he would be glad to see the tea-table 

3^3 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

in readiness ; and then Phoebe would put on a spurt of busy 
bustle, which ceased almost as soon as his back was turned, 
so eager was she to obtain Mrs. Eobson’s sympathy in some 
little dispute that had occurred between her and the nurse- 
maid. The latter had misappropriated some hot water, 
prepared and required by Phoebe, to the washing of the 
baby’s clothes ; it was a long story, and would have tired 
the patience of any one in full possession of their senses ; 
but the details were just within poor Bell’s comprehension, 
and she was listening with the greatest sympathy. Both 
the women were unaware of the lapse of time ; but it was 
of consequence to Philip, as the extra labour was not to be 
begun until after tea, and the daylight hours were precious. 

At a quarter to five, Hester and he came in, and then 
Phoebe began to hurry. Hester went up to sit by Bell and 
talk to her. Philip spoke to Phoebe in the familiar words of 
country-folk. Indeed, until his marriage, Phoebe had always 
called him by his Christian name, and had found it very 
difficult to change it into “ master.” 

“ Where’s Sylvie ? ” said he. 

“ Gone out wi’ t’ babby,” replied Phoebe. 

“ Why can’t Nancy carry it out ? ” asked Philip. 

It was touching on the old grievance : he was tired, and 
he spoke with sharp annoyance. Phoebe might easily have 
told him the real state of the case ; Nancy was busy at her 
washing, which would have been reason enough. But the 
nurse-maid had vexed her, and she did not like Philip’s sharp- 
ness ; so she only said — 

“It’s noane o’ my business; it’s yo’ t’ look after yo’r 
own wife and child : but yo’re but a lad after a’.” 

This was not a conciliatory speech, and just put the last 
stroke to Philip’s fit of ill-temper. 

“ I’m not for my tea to-night,” said he to Hester, when 
all was ready. “ Sylvie’s not here, and nothing is nice, or as 
it should be. I’ll go and set to on t’ stock-taking. Don’t 
yo’ hurry, Hester ; stop and chat a bit with th’ old lady.” 

“ Nay, Philip,” said Hester, “ thou’s sadly tired ; just 

3S4 


Rescued from the Wave 

take this cup o’ tea; Sylvia ’ll be grieved, if yo’ haven’t 
something.” 

“ Sylvia doesn’t care whether I’m full or fasting,” replied 
he, impatiently putting aside the cup. “ If she did, she’d 
ha’ taken care to be in, and ha’ seen to things being as I like 
them.” 

Now, in general, Philip was the least particular of men 
about meals ; and, to do Sylvia justice, she was scrupulously 
attentive to every household duty in which old Phoebe would 
allow her to meddle, and always careful to see after her 
husband’s comforts. But Philip was too vexed at her 
absence to perceive the injustice of what he was saying, nor 
was he aware how Bell Eobson had been attending to what he 
said. But she was sadly discomfited by it, understanding just 
enough of the grievance in hand to think that her daughter 
was neglectful of those duties which she herself had always 
regarded as paramount to all others ; nor could Hester con- 
vince her that Philip had not meant what he said; neither 
could she turn the poor old woman’s thoughts from the 
words which had caused her distress. 

Presently Sylvia came in, bright and cheerful, although 
breathless with hurry. 

“Oh,” said she, taking off her wet shawl, “we’ve 
had to shelter from such a storm of rain, baby and me — 
but see ! she’s none the worse for it, as bonny as iver, bless 
her ! ” 

Hester began some speech of admiration for the child, in 
order to prevent Bell from delivering the lecture she felt 
sure was coming down on the unsuspecting Sylvia ; but all 
in vain. 

“ Philip’s been complaining on thee, Sylvie,” said Bell, in 
the way in which she had spoken to her daughter when she 
was a little child ; grave and severe in tone and look, more 
than in words. “ I forget justly what about, but he spoke on 
thy neglecting him continual. It’s not right, my lass, it’s 
not right ; a woman should — but my head’s very tired, and 
all I can think on to say is, it’s not right.” 

385 2 0 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Philip been complaining of me ! and to mother ! ” said 
Sylvia, ready to burst into tears, so grieved and angry was 
she. 

“ No ! ” said Hester, “ thy mother has taken it a little too 
strong; he were vexed -like at his tea not being ready.” 

Sylvia said no more ; but the bright colour faded from her 
cheek, and the contraction of care returned to her brow. 
She occupied herself with taking off her baby’s walking- 
things. Hester lingered, anxious to soothe and make peace ; 
she was looking sorrowfully at Sylvia, when she saw tears 
dropping on the baby’s cloak ; and then it seemed as if she 
must speak a word of comfort before going to the shop- work, 
where she knew she was expected by both Philip and Coul- 
son. She poured out a cup of tea, and, coming close up to 
Sylvia, and kneeling down by her, she whispered — 

“ Just take him this into t’ ware-room ; it’ll put all to 
rights, if thou’ll take it to him wi’ thy own hands.” 

Sylvia looked up, and Hester then more fully saw how 
she had been crying. She whispered in reply, for fear of 
disturbing her mother — 

“ I don’t mind anything but his speaking ill on me to 
mother. I know I’m for iver trying and trying to be a good 
wife to him, an’ it’s very dull work ; harder than yo’ think 
on, Hester — an’ I would ha’ been home for tea to-night ; only, 
I was afeared of baby getting wet wi’ t’ storm o’ hail as we 
had down on t’ shore ; and we sheltered under a rock. It’s 
a weary coming-home to this dark place, and to find my own 
mother set against me.” 

“ Take him his tea, like a good lassie. I’ll answer for it 
he’ll be all right. A man takes it hardly, when he comes in 
tired, a-thinking his wife ’ll be there to cheer him up a bit, 
to find her off, and niver know nought of t’ reason why.” 

“ I’m glad enough I’ve gotten a baby,” said Sylvia ; “ but, 
for aught else, 1 wish I’d niver been married, I do ! ” 

“Hush thee, lass!” said Hester, rising up indignant; 
“ now that is a sin. Eh ! if thou only knew the lot o’ some 
folk 1 But let’s talk no more on that that cannot be helped ; 

386 


Rescued from the Waves 

go, take him his tea, for it’s a sad thing to think on him 
fasting all this time.” 

Hester’s voice was raised by the simple fact of her 
change of position ; and the word “ fasting ” caught Mrs. 
Eobson’s ear, as she sate at her knitting by the chimney- 
corner. 

“ ‘ Fasting ’ ? he said thou didn’t care if he were full or 
fasting. Lassie ! it’s not right in thee, I say ; go, take him 
his tea at once.” 

Sylvia rose, and gave up the baby, which she had been 
suckling, to Nancy, who, having done her washing, had come 
for her charge, to put it to bed. Sylvia kissed it fondly, 
making a little moan of sad, passionate tenderness as she 
did so. Then she took the cup of tea ; but she said, rather 
defiantly, to Hester — 

“ I’ll go to him with it, because mother bids me, and it’ll 
ease her mind.” 

Then louder to her mother, she added — 

“ Mother, I’ll take him his tea, though I couldn’t help 
the being out.” 

If the act itself was conciliatory, the spirit in which she 
was going to do it was the reverse. Hester followed her 
slowly into the ware-room, with intentional delay, thinking 
that her presence might be an obstacle to their mutually 
understanding one another. Sylvia held the cup and plate 
of bread and butter out to Philip, but avoided meeting his 
eye, and said not a word of explanation, or regret, or self- 
justification. If she had spoken, though ever so crossly, 
Philip would have been relieved, and would have preferred it 
to her silence. He wanted to provoke her to speech, but did 
not know how to begin. 

“ Thou’s been out again wandering on that sea-shore ! ” 
said he. She did not answer him. “ I cannot think what’s 
always taking thee there, when one would ha’ thought a 
walk up to Esdale would be far more sheltered, both for thee 
and baby, in such weather as this. Thou’ll be having that 
baby ill, some of these days.” 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

At this, she looked up at him, and her lips moved as 
though she were going to say something. Oh, how he 
wished she would, that they might come to a wholesome 
quarrel, and a making friends again, and a tender kissing, 
in which he might whisper penitence for all his hasty words 
or unreasonable vexation ! But she had come resolved not 
to speak, for fear of showing too much passion, too much 
emotion. Only as she was going away, she turned and 
said — 

“ Philip, mother hasn’t many more years to live ; dunnot 
grieve her, and set her again’ me by finding fault wi’ me 
afore her. Our being wed were a great mistake ; but 
before t’ poor old widow- woman let us make as if we were 
happy.” 

“ Sylvie ! Sylvie ! ” he called after her. She must have 
heard ; but she did not turn. He went after her, and seized 
her by the arm rather roughly ; she had stung him to the 
heart with her calm words, which seemed to reveal a long- 
formed conviction. 

“ Sylvie ! ” said he, almost fiercely, “ what do yo’ mean by 
what yo’ve said ? Speak ! I will have an answer.” 

He almost shook her ; she was half-frightened by his 
vehemence of behaviour, which she took for pure anger, 
while it was the outburst of agonised and unrequited love. 

“ Let me go ! Oh, Philip, yo’ hurt me ! ” 

Just at this moment Hester came up; Philip was 
ashamed of his passionate ways in her serene presence, and 
loosened his grasp of his wife, and she ran away ; ran into 
her mother’s empty room, as to a solitary place, and there 
burst into that sobbing, miserable crying which we instinc- 
tively know is too surely lessening the length of our days on 
earth to be indulged in often. 

When she had exhausted that first burst and lay weak 
and quiet for a time, she listened in dreading expectation of 
the sound of his footstep coming in search of her, to make 
friends. But he was detained below on business, and never 
came. Instead, her mother came clambering up the stairs ; 

388 


Rescued from the Waves 

she was now in the habit of going to bed between seven 
and eight, and to-night she was retiring at even an earlier 
hour. 

Sylvia sprang up and drew down the window-blind, and 
made her face and manner as composed as possible, in order 
to soothe and comfort her mother’s last waking-hours. She 
helped her to bed with gentle patience ; the restraint imposed 
upon her by her tender filial love was good for her, though all 
the time she was longing to be alone to have another wild 
outburst. When her mother was going off to sleep, Sylvia 
went to look at her baby, also in a soft sleep. Then she 
gazed out at the evening-sky, high above the tiled roofs of the 
opposite houses, and the longing to be out under the peaceful 
heavens took possession of her once more. 

“ It’s my only comfort,” said she to herself ; “ and there’s 
no earthly harm in it. I would ha’ been at home to his tea, 
if I could ; but, when he doesn’t want me, and mother doesn’t 
want me, and baby is either in my arms or asleep — why. I’ll 
go and cry my fill out under yon great quiet sky. I cannot 
stay in t’ house to be choked up wi’ my tears, nor yet to have 
him coming about me, either for scolding or peace-making.” 

So she put on her things, and went out again ; this time 
along the High Street, and up the long flights of steps towards 
the parish church, and there she stood and thought that here 
she had first met Kinraid, at Barley’s burying, and she tried 
to recall the very look of all the sad, earnest faces round the 
open grave — the whole scene, in fact ; and let herself give 
way to the miserable regrets she had so often tried to control. 
Then she walked on, crying bitterly, almost unawares to her- 
self ; on, through the high, bleak fields at the summit of the 
cliffs : fields bounded by loose stone fences, and far from all 
sight of the habitation of man. But, below, the sea rose and 
raged ; it was high-water at the highest tide, and the wind 
blew gustily from the land, vainly combating the great waves 
that came invincibly up, with a roar and an impotent furious 
dash against the base of the cliffs below. 

Sylvia heard the sound of the passionate rush and rebound 

3S9 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

of many waters, like the shock of mighty guns, whenever the 
other sound of the blustering gusty wind was lulled for 
an instant. She was more quieted by this tempest of the 
elements than she would have been, had all nature seemed as 
still as she had imagined it to be, while she was yet indoors 
and only saw a part of the serene sky. 

She fixed on a certain point, in her own mind, which she 
would reach, and then turn back again. It was where the 
outline of the land curved inwards, dipping into a little bay. 
Here the field-path she had hitherto followed descended some- 
what abruptly to a cluster of fishermen’s cottages, hardly 
large enough to be called a village; and then the narrow 
roadway wound up the rising ground, till it again reached the 
summit of the cliffs that stretched along the coast for many 
and many a mile. 

Sylvia said to herself that she would turn homewards, when 
she came within sight of this cove — Headlington Cove, they 
called it. All the way along she had met no one since she had 
left the town ; but, just as she had got over the last stile, or 
ladder of stepping-stones, into the field from which the path 
descended, she came upon a number of people — quite a crowd, 
in fact ; men moving forward in a steady line, hauling at a 
rope, a chain, or something of that kind ; boys, children, and 
women holding babies in their arms, as if aU were fain to come 
out and partake in some general interest. 

They kept within a certain distance from the edge of the 
cliff, and Sylvia, advancing a httle, now saw the reason why. 
The great cable the men held was attached to some part of a 
smack, which could now be seen by her in the waters below, 
half -dismantled, and all but a wreck, yet with her deck covered 
with living men, as far as the waning light would allow her 
to see. The vessel strained to get free of the strong guiding 
cable ; the tide was turning, the wind was blowing off shore ; 
and Sylvia knew, without being told, that almost parallel to 
this was a line of sunken rocks that had been fatal to many 
a ship before now, if she had tried to take the inner channel, 
instead of keeping out to sea for miles, and then steering in 

390 


Rescued from the Waves 

straight for Monkshaven port. And the ships that had been 
thus lost had been in good plight and order, compared to this 
vessel, which seemed nothing but a hull without mast or sail. 

By this time the crowd — the fishermen from the hamlet 
down below, with their wives and children— all had come but 
the bedridden — had reached the place where Sylvia stood. 
The women, in a state of wild excitement, rushed on, encou- 
raging their husbands and sons by words, even while they 
hindered them by actions ; and, from time to time, one of 
them would run to the edge of the cliff, and shout out some 
brave words of hope, in her shrill voice, to the crew on the 
deck below. Whether these latter heard it or not, no one 
could tell ; but it seemed as if all human voice must be lost 
in the tempestuous stun and tumult of wind and wave. It 
was generally a woman with a child in her arms who so 
employed herself. As the strain upon the cable became 
greater, and the ground on which they strove more uneven, 
every hand was needed to hold and push, and all those women 
who were unencumbered held by the dear rope on which so 
many lives were depending. On they came, a long line of 
human beings, black against the ruddy sunset sky. As they 
came near Sylvia, a woman cried out — 

“ Dunnot stand idle, lass, but houd on wi’ us ; there’s 
many a bonny life at stake, and many a mother’s heart 
a-hangin’ on this bit o’ hemp. Tak’ houd, lass, and give a 
firm grip ; and God remember thee i’ thy need ! ” 

Sylvia needed no second word ; a place was made for her, 
and in an instant more the rope was pulling against her hands, 
till it seemed as though she was holding fire in her bare 
palms. Never a one of them thought of letting go for an 
instant ; though, when all was over, many of their hands were 
raw and bleeding. Some strong, experienced fishermen passed 
a word along the line, from time to time, giving directions as 
to how it should be held according to varying occasions ; but 
few among the rest had breath or strength enough to speak. 
The women and children that accompanied them ran on 
before, breaking down the loose stone-fences, so as to obviate 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

delay or hindrance; they talked continually, exhorting, en- 
couraging, explaining. From their many words and frag- 
mentary sentences, Sylvia learnt that the vessel was supposed 
to be a Newcastle smack, sailing from London, that had taken 
the dangerous inner channel to save time, and had been 
caught in the storm, which she was too crazy to withstand ; 
and that, if by some daring contrivance of the fishermen who 
had first seen her, the cable had not been got ashore, she 
would have been cast upon the rocks before this, and “ all 
on board perished.” 

“ It were day-leet then,” quoth one woman ; “ a could see 
their faces, they were so near. They were as pale as dead 
men, an’ one was prayin’ down on his knees. There was a 
king’s officer aboard, for I saw t’ gowd about him.” 

“ He’d maybe come from these hom’ard parts, and be 
cornin’ to see his own folk ; else it’s no common for king’s 
officers to sail in aught but king’s ships.” 

“ Eh ! but it’s gettin’ dark ! See there’s t’ leeghts in t’ 
houses in t’ New Town ! T’ grass is crispin’ wi’ t’ white frost 
under our feet. It’ll be a hard tug round t’ point, and then 
she’ll be gettin’ into still waters.” 

One more great push and mighty strain, and the danger 
was past ; the vessel — or what remained of her — was in the 
harbour, among the lights and cheerful sounds of safety. The 
fishermen sprang down the cliff to the quay-side, anxious to 
see the men whose lives they had saved ; the women, weary 
and over-excited, began to cry. Not Sylvia, however ; her 
fount of tears had been exhausted earlier in the day ; her 
principal feeling was of gladness and high rejoicing that they 
were saved who had been so near to death, not half an hour 
before. 

She would have liked to have seen the men, and shaken 
hands with them all round. But, instead, she must go home ; 
and well would it be with her, if she was in time for her 
husband’s supper, and, escaped any notice of her absence. So 
she separated herself from the groups of women who sate on 
the grass in the churchyard, awaiting the return of such of 

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Rescued from the Waves 

their husbands as could resist the fascinations of the Monks- 
haven public-houses. As Sylvia went down the church-steps, 
she came upon one of the fishermen who had helped to tow 
the vessel into port. 

“ There was seventeen men and boys aboard her, and a 
navy lieutenant as had corned as passenger. It were a good 
job as we could manage her. Good-neet to thee ; thou’ll sleep 
all t’ sounder for havin’ lent a hand.” 

The street air felt hot and close after the sharp, keen 
atmosphere of the heights above ; the decent shops and 
houses had all their shutters put up, and were preparing for 
their early bed- time. Already lights shone here and there in 
the upper chambers, and Sylvia scarcely met any one. 

She went round up the passage from the quay-side, and 
in by the private door. All was still ; the basins of bread- 
and-milk, that she and her husband were in the habit of 
having for supper, stood in the fender before the fire, each 
with a plate upon it. Nancy had gone to bed ; Phoebe 
dozed in the kitchen; Philip was still in the ware-room, 
arranging goods and taking stock along with Coulson, for 
Hester had gone home to her mother. 

Sylvia was not willing to go and seek out Philip, after the 
manner in which they had parted. All the despondency of 
her life became present to her again, as she sate down within 
her home. She had forgotten it in her interest and excite- 
ment ; but now it came back again. 

Still she was hungry, and youthful, and tired. She took 
her basin up, and was eating her supper, when she heard a 
cry from her baby upstairs, and ran away to attend to it. 
When it had been fed and hushed away to sleep, she went 
in to see her mother, attracted by some unusual noise in 
her room. 

She found Mrs. Eobson awake, and restless, and ailing ; 
dwelling much on what Phihp had said in his anger against 
Sylvia. It was really necessary for her daughter to remain 
with her ; so Sylvia stole out, and went quickly downstairs 
to Philip — now sitting tired and worn-out, and eating his 

393 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

supper with little or no appetite — and told him she meant to 
pass the night with her mother. 

His answer of acquiescence was so short and careless, or 
so it seemed to her, that she did not tell him any more of 
what she had done or seen that evening, or even dwell upon 
any details of her mother’s indisposition. 

As soon as she had left the room, Philip set down his 
half-finished basin of bread and milk, and sate long, his face 
hidden in his folded arms. The wick of the candle grew 
long and black, and fell, and sputtered, and guttered ; he sate 
on, unheeding either it or the pale grey fire that was dying 
out — dead at last. 


CHAPTEE XXXIII 

AN APPAEITION 

Mrs. Eobson was very poorly all night long. Uneasy 
thoughts seemed to haunt and perplex her brain, and she 
neither slept nor woke, but was restless and uneasy in her 
talk and movements. 

Sylvia lay down by her, but got so little sleep, that, at 
length, she preferred sitting in the easy-chair by the bedside. 
Here she dropped off to slumber in spite of herself; the 
scene of the evening before seemed to be repeated ; the cries 
of the many people, the heavy roar and dash of the threaten- 
ing waves, were repeated in her ears ; and something was 
said to her through all the conflicting noises — what it was 
she could not catch, though she strained to hear the hoarse 
murmur that, in her dream, she believed to convey a meaning 
of the utmost importance to her. 

This dream, that mysterious, only half -intelligible, sound, 
recurred, whenever she dozed ; and her inability to hear the 
words uttered distressed her so much, that at length she sate 

394 


An Apparition 

bolt upright, resolved to sleep no more. Her mother was 
talking in a half-conscious way ; Philip’s speech of the even- 
ing before was evidently running in her mind, 

“ Sylvie, if thou’re not a good wife to him, it’ll just break 
my heart outright. A woman should obey her husband, and 
not go her own gait. I never leave the house wi’out telling 
father, and getting his leave.” 

And then she began to cry pitifully, and to say uncon- 
nected things, till Sylvia, to soothe her, took her hand, and 
promised never to leave the house without asking her 
husband’s permission ; though, in making this promise, she 
felt as if she were sacrificing her last pleasure to her mother’s 
wish ; for she knew well enough that Philip would always 
raise objections to the rambles which reminded her of her 
old, free, open-air life. 

But, to comfort and cherish her mother, she would have 
done anything ; yet, this very morning that was dawning, 
she must go and ask his permission for a simple errand, or 
break her word. 

She knew from experience that nothing quieted her 
mother so well as balm-tea ; it might be that the herb really 
possessed some sedative power ; it might be only early faith 
and often-repeated experience, but it had always had a tran- 
quillising effect; and more than once, during the restless 
hours of the night, Mrs. Eobson had asked for it ; but 
Sylvia’s stock of last year’s dead leaves was exhausted. 
Still she knew where a plant of balm grew in the sheltered 
corner of Haytersbank Farm garden; she knew that the 
tenants who had succeeded them in the occupation of the 
farm had had to leave it, in consequence of a death, and that 
the place was unoccupied; and in the darkness she had 
planned that, if she could leave her mother after the dawn 
came, and she had attended to her baby, she would walk 
quickly to the old garden, and gather the tender sprigs which 
she was sure to find there. 

Now she must go and ask Philip ; and, till she held her 
baby to her breast, she bitterly wished that she were free 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

from the duties and chains of matrimony. But the touch of 
its waxen fingers, the hold of its little mouth, made her relax 
into docility and gentleness. She gave it back to Nancy to 
be dressed, and softly opened the door of Philip’s bedroom. 

“ Philip ! ” said she gently. “ Philip ! ” 

He started up from dreams of her : of her, angry. He 
saw her there, rather pale with her night’s watch and anxiety, 
but looking meek, and a little beseeching. 

“ Mother has had such a bad night! she fancied once as 
some balm-tea would do her good — it allays used to ; but 
my dried balm is all gone, and I thought there’d be sure to 
be some in t’ old garden at Haytersbank. Feyther planted 
a bush just for mother, wheere it allays came up early, nigh 
t’ old elder-tree; and it yo’d not mind, I could run theere 
while she sleeps, and be back again in an hour, and it’s not 
seven now.” 

“ Thou’s not wear thyself out with running, Sylvie,” said 
Philip eagerly ; “ I’ll get up and go myself, or, perhaps,” 
continued he, catching the shadow that was coming over 
her face, “ thou’d rather go thyself : it’s only that I’m so 
afraid of thy tiring thyself.” 

“ It’ll not tire me,” said Sylvia. “ Afore I was married, 
I was out often far farther than that, a-field, to fetch up t’ 
kine, before my breakfast.” 

“ Well, go if thou will,” said Philip. “ But get somewhat 
to eat first, and don’t hurry ; there’s no need for that.” 

She had got her hat and shawl, and was off, before he 
had finished his last words. 

The long High Street was almost empty of people at that 
early hour ; one side was entirely covered by the cool morn- 
ing shadow which lay on the pavement, and crept up the 
opposite houses till only the topmost storey caught the rosy 
sunlight. Up the hill-road, through the gap in the stone 
wall, across the dewy fields, Sylvia went by the very shortest 
path she knew. 

She had only once been at Haytersbank since her 
wedding-day. On that occasion the place had seemed 

396 


An Apparition 

strangely and dissonantly changed by the numerous children 
who were diverting themselves before the open door, and 
whose playthings and clothes strewed the house-place, and 
made it one busy scene of confusion and untidiness, more 
like the Corneys’ kitchen, in former times, than her mother’s 
orderly and quiet abode. Those little children were father- 
less now ; and the house was shut up, awaiting the entry 
of some new tenant. There were no shutters to shut ; the 
long low window was blinking in the rays of the morning 
sun ; the house and cow-house doors were closed, and no 
poultry wandered about the field in search of stray grains 
of corn, or early worms. It was a strange and unfamiliar 
silence, and struck solemnly on Sylvia’s mind. Only a 
thrush in the old orchard down in the hollow, out of sight, 
whistled and gurgled with continual shrill melody. 

Sylvia went slowly past the house, and down the path 
leading to the wild, deserted bit of garden. She saw that the 
last tenants had had a pump sunk for them, and resented the 
innovation, as though the well she was passing could feel 
the insult. Over it grew two hawthorn-trees ; on the bent 
trunk of one of them she used to sit, long ago : the charm of 
the position being enhanced by the possible danger of falling 
into the well and being drowned. The rusty, unused chain 
was wound round the windlass ; the bucket was falling to 
pieces from dryness. A lean cat came from some outhouse, 
and mewed pitifully with hunger ; accompanying Sylvia to 
the garden, as if glad of some human companionship, yet 
refusing to allow itself to be touched. Primroses grew in 
the sheltered places, just as they formerly did, and made 
the uncultivated ground seem less deserted than the garden, 
where the last year’s weeds were rotting away, and cumber- 
ing the ground. 

Sylvia forced her way through the berry-bushes to the 
herb-plot, and plucked the tender leaves she had come to 
seek; sighing a little all the time. Then she retraced her 
steps ; paused softly before the house-door, and entered the 
porch and kissed the senseless wood. 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

She tried to tempt the poor gaunt cat into her arms, 
meaning to carry it home and befriend it ; but it was scared 
by her endeavour and ran back to its home in the outhouse, 
making a green path across the white dew of the meadow. 
Then Sylvia began to hasten home, thinking, and remember- 
ing — at the stile that led into the road, she was brought 
short up. 

Some one stood in the lane, just on the other side of the 
gap ; his back was to the morning sun ; all she saw at first 
was the uniform of a naval officer, so well known in Monks- 
haven in those days. 

Sylvia went hurrying past him, not looking again, although 
her clothes almost brushed his, as he stood there still. She 
had not gone a yard — no, not half a yard — when her heart 
leaped up and fell again dead within her, as if she had been 
shot. 

“ Sylvia ! ” he said, in a voice tremulous with joy and 
passionate love. “ Sylvia ! ” 

She looked round; he had turned a little, so that the 
light fell straight on his face. It was bronzed, and the lines 
were strengthened ; but it was the same face she had last 
seen in Haytersbank Gully three long years ago, and had 
never thought to see in life again. 

He was close to her and held oilt his fond arms ; she went 
fluttering towards their embrace, as if drawn by the old 
fascination ; but, when she felt them close round her, she 
started away, and cried out with a great pitiful shriek, and 
put her hands up to her forehead, as if trying to clear away 
some bewildering mist. 

Then she looked at him once more ; a terrible story in her 
eyes, if he could but have read it. 

Twice she opened her stiff lips to speak, and twice the 
words were overwhelmed by the surges of her misery, which 
bore them back into the depths of her heart. 

He thought that he had come upon her too suddenly, and 
he attempted to soothe her with soft murmurs of love, and 
to woo her to his outstretched, hungry arms once more. 

398 


An Apparition 

But, when she saw this motion of his, she made a gesture as 
though pushing him away ; and, with an inarticulate moan 
of agony, she put her hands to her head once more, and, 
turning away, began to run blindly towards the town for 
protection. 

For a minute or so he was stunned with surprise at her 
behaviour ; and then he thought it accounted for by the shock 
of his accost, and that she needed time to understand the 
unexpected joy. So he followed her swiftly, ever keeping her 
in view, but trying not to overtake her too speedily. 

“I have frightened my poor love,” he kept thinking. 
And by this thought he tried to repress his impatience and 
check the speed he longed to use ; yet he was always so near 
behind that her quickened sense heard his well-known foot- 
steps following, and a mad notion flashed across her brain, 
that she would go to the wide full river, and end the hopeless 
misery she felt enshrouding her. There was a sure hiding- 
place from all human reproach and heavy mortal woe beneath 
the rushing waters, borne landwards by the morning tide. 

No one can tell what changed her course ; perhaps the 
thought of her sucking child ; perhaps her mother ; perhaps 
an angel of God— no one on earth knows; but, as she ran 
along the quay-side, she all at once turned up an entry, and 
through an open door. 

He, following all the time, came into a quiet dark parlour, 
with a cloth and tea-things on the table ready for breakfast ; 
the change from the bright sunny air out of doors to the deep 
shadow of this room made him think, for the first moment, 
that she had passed on, and that no one was there, and he 
stood for an instant baffled, and hearing no sound but the 
beating of his own heart ; but an irresponsible sobbing gasp 
made him look round, and there he saw her cowered behind 
the door, her face covered tight up, and sharp shudders going 
through her whole frame. 

“My love, my darling!” said he, going up to her, and 
trying to raise her, and to loosen her hands away from her 
face. “I’ve been too sudden for thee ; it was thoughtless in 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

me ; but I have so looked forward to this time, and, seeing 
thee come along the field, and go past me — but I should ha’ 
been more tender and careful of thee. Nay, let me have 
another look of thy sweet face ! ” 

All this he whispered in the old tones of manoeuvring love, 
in that voice she had yearned and hungered to hear in life, 
and had not heard, for all her longing, save in her dreams. 

She tried to crouch more and more into the corner, into 
the hidden shadow— to sink into the ground out of sight. 

Once more he spoke, beseeching her to lift up her face, to 
let him hear her speak. 

But she only moaned. 

“ Sylvia ! ” said he, thinking he could change his tactics, 
and pique her into speaking, that he would make a pretence 
of suspicion and offence. 

“ Sylvia I one would think you weren’t glad to see me 
back again at length. I only came in late last night, and my 
first thought on wakening was of you ; it has been ever since 
I left you.” 

Sylvia took her hands away from her face ; it was grey 
as the face of death ; her awful eyes were passionless in her 
despair. 

“Where have yo’ been?” she asked, in slow, hoarse 
tones, as if her voice were half strangled within her. 

“ Been ! ” said he, a red light coming into his eyes, as he 
bent his looks upon her; now, indeed, a true and not an 
assumed suspicion entering his mind. 

“ Been ! ” he repeated ; then, coming a step nearer to 
her, and taking her hand, not tenderly this time, but with 
a resolution to be satisfied : 

“ Did not your cousin — Hepburn, I mean — did not he 
tell you ? — he saw the press-gang seize me — I gave him a 
message to you — I bade you keep true to me, as I would be 
to you.” 

Between every clause of this speech he paused and gasped 
for her answer ; but none came. Her eyes dilated and held 
his steady gaze prisoner as with a magical charm — neither 

400 


An Apparition 

could look away from the other’s wild, searching gaze. When 
he had ended, she was silent for a moment ; then she cried 
out, shrill and fierce — 

“ Philip ! ” No answer. 

Wilder and shriller still, “ Philip ! ” she cried. 

He was in the distant ware-room, completing the last 
night’s work before the regular shop hours began ; before 
breakfast, also, that his wife might not find him waiting and 
impatient. 

He heard her cry ; it cut through doors, and still air, and 
great bales of woollen stuff ; he thought that she had hurt 
herself, that her mother was worse, that her baby was ill, 
and he hastened to the spot whence the cry proceeded. 

On opening the door that separated the shop from the 
sitting-room, he saw the back of a naval officer, and his 
wife on the ground, huddled up in a heap ; when she per- 
ceived him come in, she dragged herself up by means of 
a chair, groping like a blind person, and came and stood 
facing him. 

The officer turned fiercely round, and would have come 
towards Philip, who was so bewildered by the scene that even 
yet he did not understand who the stranger was — did not 
perceive for an instant that he saw the realisation of his 
greatest dread. 

But Sylvia laid her hand on Kinraid’s arm, and assumed 
to herself the right of speech. Philip did not know her 
voice ; it was so changed. 

“ Philip,” she said, “ this is Kinraid come back again to 
wed me. He is alive ; he has niver been dead, only taken 
by t’ press-gang. And he says yo’ saw it, and knew it all t’ 
time. Speak, was it so ? ” 

Philip knew not what to say, whither to turn, under what 
refuge of words or acts to shelter. 

Sylvia’s influence was keeping Kinraid silent ; but he was 
rapidly passing beyond it. 

“ Speak ! ” he cried, loosening himself from Sylvia’s light 
grasp, and coming towards Philip, with a threatening gesture. 

401 2 D 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Did I not bid you tell her how it was ? Did I not bid you 
say, how I would be faithful to her, and how she was to be 
faithful to me ? Oh, you damned scoundrel ! have you kept 
it from her all this time, and let her think me dead, or false ? 
Take that ! ” 

His closed fist was up to strike the man, who hung his 
head with bitterest shame and miserable self-reproach ; but 
Sylvia came swift between the blow and its victim. 

“ Charley, thou shan’t strike him,” she said. “ He is a 
damned scoundrel ” (this was said in the hardest, quietest 
tone) ; “ but he is my husband.” 

“ Oh ! thou false heart ! ” exclaimed Kinraid, turning 
sharp on her. “ If ever I trusted woman, I trusted you, 
Sylvia Eobson.” 

He made as though throwing her from him, with a 
gesture of contempt that stung her to life. 

“ Oh, Charley ! ” she cried, springing to him, “ dunnot 
cut me to the quick ; have pity on me, though he had none. 
I did so love thee; it was my very heart-strings as gave 
way, when they told me thou was drowned — feyther, and th’ 
Corneys, and all, iverybody. Thy hat and t’ bit o’ ribbon I 
gave thee were found drenched and dripping wi’ sea-water ; 
and I went mourning for thee all the day long — dunnot turn 
away from me; only hearken this once, and then kill me 
dead, and I’ll bless yo’ — and have niver been mysel’ since ; 
niver ceased to feel t’ sun grow dark and th’ air chill and 
dreary, when I thought on t’ time when thou was alive. I 
did, my Charley, my own love! And I thought thou was 
dead for iver, and I wished I were lying beside thee. Oh, 
Charley 1 Philip, theere, where he stands, could tell yo’ this 
was true. Philip, wasn’t it so ? ” 

“ Would God I were dead ! ” moaned forth the unhappy, 
guilty man. But she had turned to Kinraid, and was speak- 
ing again to him, and neither of them heard or heeded him 
— they were drawing closer and closer together — she, with 
her cheeks and eyes aflame, talking eagerly. 

“ And feyther was taken up, and all for setting some free 
402 


An Apparition 

as t’ press-gang had gotten by a foul trick ; and he were put 
i’ York prison, and tried, and hung! — hung, Charley! — 
good, kind feyther was hung on a gallows ; and mother lost 
her sense and grew silly in grief ; and we were like to be 
turned out on t’ wide world, and poor mother dateless — ^and 
I thought yo’ were dead — oh ! I thought yo’ were dead, I 
did — oh, Charley, Charley ! ” 

By this time they were in each other’s arms, she with 
her head on his shoulder, crying as if her heart would 
break. 

Philip came forwards and took hold of her to pull her 
away; but Charley held her tight, mutely defying Philip. 
Unconsciously she was Philip’s protection, in that hour of 
danger, from a blow which might have been his death, if 
strong will could have aided it to kill. 

“ Sylvie ! ” said he, grasping her tight. “ Listen to me ! 
He didn’t love yo’ as I did. He had loved other women. I, 
yo’ — yo’ alone. He loved other girls before yo’, and had 
left off loving ’em. I — wish God would free my heart 
from the pang ; but it will go on till I die, whether yo’ love 
me or not. And then — where was I ? Oh ! that very night 
that he was taken, I was a-thinking on yo’ and on him ; and 
I might ha’ given yo’ his message, but I heard them speaking 
of him as knew him well ; talking of his false, fickle ways. 
How was I to know he would keep true to thee ? It might 
be a sin in me, I cannot say ; my heart and my sense 
are gone dead within me. I know this : I’ve loved yo’, as 
no man but me ever loved before. Have some pity and 
forgiveness on me, if it’s only because I’ve been so tormented 
with my love ! ” 

He looked at her with feverish eager wistfulness; it 
faded away into despair, as she made no sign of having even 
heard his words. He let go his hold of her, and his arm fell 
loosely by his side. 

“ I may die,” he said, “ for my life is ended ! ” 

“ Sylvia ! ” spoke out Kinraid, bold and fervent ; “ your 
marriage is no marriage. You were tricked into it. You 

403 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

are my wife, not his. I am your husband ; we plighted each 
other our troth. See ! here is my half of the sixpence.” 

He pulled it out from his bosom, tied by a black ribbon 
round his neck. 

“ When they stripped me and searched me in th’ French 
prison, I managed to keep this. No lies can break the oath 
we swore to each other. I can get your pretence of a 
marriage set aside. I’m in favour with my admiral, and 
he’ll do a deal for me, and back me out. Come with me ; 
your marriage shall be set aside, and we’ll be married again, 
all square and above-board. Come away. Leave that 
damned fellow to repent of the trick he played an honest 
sailor ; we’ll be true, whatever has come and gone. Come, 
Sylvia.” 

His arm was round her waist, and he was drawing her 
towards the door, his face all crimson with eagerness and 
hope. Just then the baby cried. 

“ Hark ! ” said she, starting away from Kinraid, “ baby’s 
crying for me. His child — yes, it is his child — I’d forgotten 
that — forgotten all. I’ll make my vow now, lest I lose 
mysel’ again. I’ll never forgive yon man, nor live with him 
as his wife again. All that’s done and ended. He’s spoilt 
my life — he’s spoilt it for as long as iver I live on this earth ; 
but neither yo’ nor him shall spoil my soul. It goes hard 
wi’ me, Charley, it does indeed. I’ll just give yo’ one kiss — 
one little kiss — and then, so help me God, I’ll niver see yo’ 
nor hear tell — no, not that, not that is needed — I’ll niver see 
— sure that’s enough — I’ll niver see yo’ again on this side 
heaven, so help me God ! I’m bound and tied, but I’ve 
sworn my oath to him as well as yo’ : there’s things I will 
do, and there’s things I won’t. Kiss me once more. God 
help me, he’s gone ! ” 


404 


A Reckless Recruit 


CHAPTEE XXXIV 

A RECKLESS RECRUIT 

She lay across a chair, her arms helplessly stretched out, 
her face unseen. Every now and then a thrill ran through 
her body: she was talking to herself all the time with 
incessant low incontinence of words. 

Philip stood near her, motionless : he did not know 
whether she was conscious of his presence ; in fact, he 
knew nothing but that he and she were sundered for ever ; 
he could only take in that one idea, and it numbed all other 
thought. 

Once more her baby cried for the comfort she alone 
could give. 

She rose to her feet, but staggered when she tried to 
walk; her glazed eyes fell upon Philip, as he instinctively 
made a step to hold her steady. No light came into her 
eyes, any more than if she had looked upon a perfect 
stranger; not even was there the contraction of dislike. 
Some other figure filled her mind, and she saw Philip no 
more than she saw the inanimate table. That way of look- 
ing at him withered him up more than any sign of aversion 
would have done. 

He watched her laboriously climb the stairs, and vanish 
out of sight ; and sat down with a sudden feeling of extreme 
bodily weakness. 

The door of communication between the parlour and the 
shop was opened. That was the first event of which Philip 
took note ; but Phoebe had come in unawares to him, with 
the intention of removing the breakfast -things on her return 
from market; and, seeing them unused, and knowing that 
Sylvia had sate up all night with her mother, she had 
gone back to the kitchen. Philip had neither seen nor 
heard her 


405 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Now Coulson came in, amazed at Hepburn’s non- 
appearance in the shop. 

“ Why ! Philip, what’s ado ? How ill yo’ look, man ! ” 
exclaimed he, thoroughly alarmed by Philip’s ghastly 
appearance. “ What’s the matter? ” 

“ I ! ” said Philip, slowly gathering his thoughts. “ Why 
should there be anything the matter ? ” 

His instinct, quicker to act than his reason, made him 
shrink from his misery being noticed, much more made any 
subject for explanation or sympathy. 

“ There may be nothing the matter wi’ thee,” said Coul- 
son, “ but thou’s the look of a corpse on thy face. I was 
afeard something was wrong, for it’s half-past nine, and 
thee so punctual ! ” 

He almost guarded Philip into the shop, and kept fur- 
tively watching him, and perplexing himself with Philip’s 
odd strange ways. 

Hester, too, observed the heavy, broken-down expression 
on Philip’s ashen face, and her heart ached for him ; but 
after that first glance, which told her so much, she avoided 
all appearance of noticing or watching. Only, a shadow 
brooded over her sweet, calm face, and once or twice she 
sighed to herself. 

It was market-day, and people came in and out, bringing 
their store of gossip from the country or the town — from 
the farm or the quay-side. 

Among the pieces of news, the rescue of the smack the 
night before furnished a large topic ; and, by-and-by, Philip 
heard a name that startled him into attention. 

The landlady of a small public-house much frequented 
by sailors was talking to Coulson. 

“ There was a sailor aboard of her as knowed Kinraid by 
sight, in Shields, years ago ; and he called him by his name 
afore they were well out o’ t’ river. And Kinraid was no 
ways set up, for all his lieutenant’s uniform (and eh ! but 
they say he looks handsome in it !) ; but he tells ’m all 
about it — how he was pressed aboard a man-o’-war, an’ for 

406 


A Reckless Recruit 

his good conduct were made a warrant-officer, boatswain, or 
something ! ” 

All the people in the shop were listening now;. Philip 
alone seemed engrossed in folding up a piece of cloth, so as 
to leave no possible chance of creases in it ; yet he lost not a 
syllable of the good woman’s narration. 

She, pleased with the enlarged audience her tale had 
attracted, went on with fresh vigour. 

“ An’ there’s a gallant captain, one Sir Sidney Smith, and 
he’d a notion o’ goin’ smack into a French port, an’ carryin’ 
off a vessel from right under their very noses ; an’, says he, 
‘ Which of yo’ British sailors ’ll go along with me to death 
or glory ? ’ So Kinraid stands up like a man, an’ ‘ I’ll go 
with yo’, captain,’ he says. So they, an’ some others as 
brave, went off, an’ did their work, an’ choose whativer it 
was, they did it famously; but they got caught by them 
French, an’ were clapped into prison i’ France for iver so 
long ; but at last one Philip — Philip somethin’ (he were a 
Frenchman, I know) — helped ’em to escape, in a fishin’-boat. 
But they were welcomed by th’ whole British squadron as 
was i’ t’ Channel for t’ piece of daring they’d done i’ cuttin’ 
out t’ ship from a French port ; an’ Captain Sir Sidney 
Smith was made an admiral, an’ him as we used t’ call 
Charley Kinraid, the specksioneer, is made a lieutenant, an’ 
a commissioned officer i’ t’ King’s service, and is come to 
great glory ; and slep in my house this very blessed night as 
is just past ! ” 

A murmur of applause and interest and rejoicing buzzed 
all around Philip. All this was publicly known about 
Kinraid — and how much more ? All Monkshaven might 
hear to-morrow — nay, to-day — of Philip’s treachery to the 
hero of the hour ; how he had concealed his fate and sup- 
planted him in his love. 

Philip shrank from the burst of popular indignation which 
he knew must follow. Any wrong done to one who stands 
on the pinnacle of the people’s favour is resented by each 
individual as a personal injury ; and among a primitive set 

407 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

of country-folk, who recognise the wild passion in love, as it 
exists untamed by the trammels of reason and self-restraint, 
any story of baulked affections, or of treachery in such 
matters, spreads like wildfire. 

Philip knew this quite well ; his doom of disgrace lay 
plain before him, if only Kinraid spoke the word. His head 
was bent down, while he thus listened and reflected. He 
half resolved on doing something ; he lifted up his head, 
caught the reflection of his face in the little strip of glass on 
the opposite side, in which the women might look at them- 
selves in their contemplated purchases, and quite resolved. 

The sight he saw in the mirror was his own long, sad, 
pale face, made plainer and greyer by the heavy pressure of 
the morning’s events. He saw his stooping figure, his 
rounded shoulders, with something like a feeling of disgust 
at his personal appearance, as he remembered the square, 
upright build of Kinraid ; his fine uniform, with epaulette 
and sword-belt ; his handsome brown face ; his dark eyes, 
splendid with the fire of passion and indignation ; his white 
teeth, gleaming out with the terrible smile of scorn. 

The comparison drove Philip from passive hopelessness 
to active despair. 

He went abruptly from the crowded shop into the empty 
parlour, and on into the kitchen, where he took up a piece 
of bread, and, heedless of Phoebe’s look and words, began 
to eat it before he even left the place ; for he needed the 
strength that food would give; he needed it to carry him 
out of the sight and the knowledge of all who might hear 
what he had done, and point their fingers at him. 

He paused a moment in the parlour, and then, setting 
his teeth tight together, he went upstairs. 

First of all he went into the bit of a room opening out of 
theirs, in which his baby slept. He dearly loved the child, 
and many a time would run in and play a while with it ; 
and in such gambols he and Sylvia had passed their happiest 
moments of wedded life. 

The little Bella was having her morning slumber ; Nancy 
408 


A Reckless Recruit 

used to tell long afterwards, how he knelt down by the side 
of her cot, and was so strange, she thought he must have 
prayed — for all it was nigh upon eleven o’clock, and folk in 
their senses only said their prayers when they got up, and 
when they went to bed. 

Then he rose, and stooped over, and gave the child a long, 
lingering, soft, fond kiss. 

And on tiptoe he passed away into the room where his 
aunt lay ; his aunt who had been so true a friend to him ! 
He was thankful to know that in her present state she was 
safe from the knowledge of what was past, safe from the 
sound of the shame to come. 

He had not meant to see Sylvia again ; he dreaded the 
look of her hatred, her scorn ; but there, outside her mother’s 
bed, she lay, apparently asleep. Mrs. Eobson, too, was 
sleeping, her face towards the wall. Philip could not help 
it; he went to have one last look at his wife. She was 
turned towards her mother, her face averted from him; he 
could see the tear-stains, the swollen eyelids, the lips yet 
quivering : he stooped down, and bent to kiss the little hand 
that lay listless by her side. As his hot breath neared that 
hand it was twitched away, and a shiver ran through the 
whole prostrate body. And then he knew that she was not 
asleep, only worn out by her misery — misery that he had 
caused. 

He sighed heavily ; but he went away, downstairs, and 
away for ever. Only, as he entered the parlour his eyes 
caught on two silhouettes, one of himself, one of Sylvia, done 
in the first month of their marriage by some wandering 
artist, if so he could be called. They were hanging against 
the wall in little oval wooden frames ; black profiles, with 
the lights done in gold ; about as poor semblances of 
humanity as could be conceived ; but Philip went up, and, 
after looking for a minute or so at Sylvia’s, he took it down, 
and buttoned his waistcoat over it. 

It was the only thing he took away from his home. 

He went down the entry on to the quay. The river was 
409 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

there, and waters, they say, have a luring power, and a weird 
promise of rest in their perpetual monotony of sound. But 
many people were there, if such a temptation presented 
itself to Philip’s mind; the sight of his fellow-townsmen, 
perhaps of his acquaintances, drove him up another entry — 
the town is burrowed with such — back into the High Street, 
which he straightway crossed into a well-known court, out of 
which rough steps led to the summit of the hill, and on to 
the fells and moors beyond. 

He plunged and panted up this rough ascent. From the 
top he could look down on the whole town lying below, 
severed by the bright shining river into two parts. To the 
right lay the sea, shimmering and heaving : there were the 
cluster of masts rising out of the little port; the irregular 
roofs of the houses ; which of them, thought he, as he carried 
his eye along the quay-side to the market-place, which of 
them was his ? and he singled it out in its unfamiliar aspect, 
and saw the thin blue smoke rising from the kitchen-chimney, 
where even now Phoebe was cooking the household-meal that 
he never more must share. 

Up at that thought and away, he knew not nor cared not 
whither. He went through the ploughed fields where the 
corn was newly springing ; he came down upon the vast 
sunny sea, and turned his back upon it with loathing ; he 
made his way inland, to the high green pastures, the short 
upland turf, above which the larks hung poised “ at heaven’s 
gate.” He strode along, so straight and heedless of briar 
and bush, that the wild black cattle ceased from grazing, and 
looked after him with their great blank, puzzled eyes. 

He had passed all enclosures and stone fences now, and 
was fairly on the desolate brown moors ; through the withered 
last year’s ling and fern, through the prickly gorse, he 
tramped, crushing down the tender shoots of this year’s 
growth, heedless of the startled plover’s cry, goaded by 
the furies. His only relief from thought, from the remem- 
brance of Sylvia’s looks and words, was in violent bodily 
action. 


410 


A Reckless Recruit 

So he went on, till evening shadows and ruddy evening 
lights came out upon the wild fells. 

He had crossed roads and lanes, with a bitter avoidance 
of men’s tracks ; but now the strong instinct of self-preserva- 
tion came out, and his aching limbs, his weary heart, giving 
great pants and beats for a time, and then ceasing altogether 
till a mist swam and quivered before his aching eyes, warned 
him that he must find some shelter and food, or lie down to 
die. He fell down now, often ; stumbling over the slightest 
obstacle. He had passed the cattle pastures ; he was among 
the black-faced sheep ; and they, too, ceased nibbling, and 
looked after him, and somehow, in his poor wandering 
imagination, their silly faces turned to likenesses of Monks - 
haven people — people who ought to be far, far away. 

“ Thou’ll be belated on these fells, if thou doesn’t tak’ 
heed,” shouted some one. 

Philip looked abroad to see whence the voice proceeded. 

An old, stiff-legged shepherd, in a smock-frock, was within 
a couple of hundred yards. Philip did not answer, but 
staggered and stumbled towards him. 

“ Good lork ! ” said the man, “ wheere hast ta been ? 
Thou’s seen Oud Harry, I think, thou looks so scared.” 

Philip rallied himself, and tried to speak up to the old 
standard of respectability ; but the effort was pitiful to see, 
had any one been by, who could have understood the pain it 
caused to restrain cries of bodily and mental agony. 

“ I’ve lost my way ; that’s all.” 

“ ’Twould ha’ been enough, too, I’m thinkin’, if I hadn’t 
come out after t’ ewes. There’s t’ Three Griffins near at 
hand : a sup o’ hollands ’ll set thee to reeghts.” 

Philip followed faintly. He could not see before him, and 
was guided by the sound of footsteps rather than by the 
sight of the figure moving onwards. He kept stumbling, 
and he knew that the old shepherd swore at him ; but 
he also knew that curses proceeded from no ill-will, only 
from annoyance at the delay in going and “ seein’ after t’ 
ewes.” But, had the man’s words conveyed the utmost 

411 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

expression of hatred, Philip would neither have wondered at 
them, nor resented them. 

They came into a wild mountain road, unfenced from the 
fells. A hundred yards off, and there was a small public- 
house, with a broad ruddy oblong of fire-light shining across 
the tract. 

“ Theere ! ” said the old man. “ Thee cannot well miss 
that. A dunno, tho’ ; thee bees sich a gawby.” 

So he went on, and delivered Philip safely up to the 
landlord. 

“ Here’s a felly as a fund on t’ fell- side, just as one as if 
he were drunk ; but he’s sober enough, a reckon, only sum- 
mat’s wrong i’ his head, a’m thinkin’.” 

“ No ! ” said Philip, sitting down on the first chair he 
came to. “I’m right enough ; just fairly wearied out ; lost 
my way ” and he fainted. 

There was a recruiting sergeant of marines sitting in the 
house-place, drinking. He, too, like Philip, had lost his 
way ; but was turning his blunder to account by telling all 
manner of wonderful stories to two or three rustics who had 
come in ready to drink on any pretence ; especially if they 
could get good liquor without paying for it. 

The sergeant rose as Philip fell back, and brought up his 
own mug of beer, into which a noggin of gin had been put 
(called in Yorkshire “ dog’s-nose ”). He partly poured and 
partly spilt some of this beverage on Philip’s face ; some 
drops went through the pale and parted lips, and with a start 
the worn-out man revived. 

“ Bring him some victual, landlord,” called out the 
recruiting-sergeant. “ I’ll stand shot.” 

They brought some cold bacon and coarse oatcake. The 
sergeant asked for pepper and salt ; minced the food fine and 
made it savoury, and kept administering it by teaspoonfuls ; 
urging Philip to drink from time to time from his own cup of 
dog’s-nose. 

A burning thirst, which needed no stimulant from either 
pepper or salt, took possession of Philip, and he drank freely, 

412 


A Reckless Recruit 

scarcely recognising what he drank. It took effect on one so 
habitually sober ; and he was soon in that state when the 
imagination works wildly and freely. 

He saw the sergeant before him, handsome, and bright, 
and active, in his gay red uniform, without a care, as it 
seemed to Philip, taking life lightly ; admired and respected 
everywhere because of his cloth. 

If Philip were gay, and brisk, well-dressed like him, 
returning with martial glory to Monkshaven, would not 
Sylvia love him once more ? Could not he win her heart ? 
He was brave by nature, and the prospect of danger did not 
daunt him, if ever it presented itself to his imagination. 

He .thought he was cautious in entering on the subject of 
enlistment with his new friend, the sergeant ; but the latter 
was twenty times as cunning as he, and knew by experience 
how to bait his hook. 

Philip was older by some years than the regulation age ; 
but, at that time of great demand for men, the question of 
age was lightly entertained. The sergeant was profuse in 
statements of the advantages presented to a man of education 
in his branch of the service ; how such a one was sure to rise ; 
in fact, it would have seemed, from the sergeant’s account, 
as though the difficulty consisted in remaining in the ranks. 

Philip’s dizzy . head thought the subject over and over 
again, each time with failing power of reason. 

At length, almost, as it would seem, by some sleight of 
hand, he found the fatal shilling in his palm, and had 
promised to go before the nearest magistrate to be sworn in 
as one of his Majesty’s marines the next morning. And, after 
that, he remembered no more. 

He wakened up in a little truckle-bed in the same room as 
the sergeant, who lay sleeping the sleep of full contentment ; 
while gradually, drop by drop, the bitter recollections of the 
day before came, filling up Philip’s cup of agony. 

He knew that he had received the bounty-money ; and, 
though he was aware that he had been partly tricked into it, 
and had no hope, no care, indeed, for any of the advantages 

413 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

SO liberally promised him the night before, yet he was 
resigned, with utterly despondent passiveness, to the fate 
to which he had pledged himself. Anything was welcome 
that severed him from his former life, that could make him 
forget it, if that were possible ; and also welcome anything 
which increased the chances of death without the sinfulness 
of his own participation in the act. He found in the dark 
recess of his mind the dead body of his fancy of the previous 
night : that he might come home, handsome and glorious, to 
win the love that had never been his. 

But he only sighed over it, and put it aside out of his 
sight — so full of despair was he. He could eat no breakfast, 
though the sergeant ordered of the best. The latter kept 
watching his new recruit out of the corner of his eye, 
expecting a remonstrance, or dreading a sudden bolt. 

But Philip walked with him the two or three miles in the 
most submissive silence, never uttering a syllable of regret 
or repentance ; and before Justice Cholmeley, of Holm- Fell 
Hall, he was sworn into his Majesty’s service, under the name 
of Stephen Freeman. With a new name, he began a new 
life. Alas ! the old life lives for ever ! 


CHAPTER XXXV 

THINGS UNUTTEKABLE 

Aftek Philip had passed out of the room, Sylvia lay per- 
fectly still, from very exhaustion. Her mother slept on, 
happily unconscious of all the turmoil that had taken place ; 
yes, happily, though the heavy sleep was to end in death. 
But of this her daughter knew nothing, imagining that it was 
refreshing slumber, instead of an ebbing of life. Both mother 
and daughter lay motionless, till Phoebe entered the room, to 
tell Sylvia that dinner was on the table. 

414' 


Things Unutterable 

Then Sylvia sate up, and put back her hair, bewildered 
and uncertain as to what was to be done next; how she 
should meet the husband to whom she had discarded all 
allegiance, repudiating the solemn promise of love and 
obedience which she had vowed. 

Phoebe came into the room, with natural interest in the 
invalid, scarcely older than herself. 

“ How is t’ old lady ? ” asked she, in a low voice. 

Sylvia turned her head round to look ; her mother had 
never moved, but was breathing in a loud uncomfortable 
manner, that made her -stoop over her to see the averted face 
more nearly. 

“ Phoebe ! ” she cried, “ come here ! She looks strange 
and odd ; her eyes are open, but don’t see me. Phoebe ! 
Phoebe ! ” 

“ Sure enough, she’s in a bad way ! ” said Phoebe, climbing 
stififly on to the bed, to have a nearer view. “ Hold her head 
a little up, t’ ease her breathin’, while I go for master ; he’ll 
be for sendin’ for t’ doctor. I’ll be bound.” 

Sylvia took her mother’s head and laid it fondly on her 
breast, speaking to her and trying to rouse her ; but it was 
of no avail : the hard, stertorous breathing grew worse and 
worse. 

Sylvia cried out for help ; Nancy came, the baby in her 
arms. They had been in several times before that morning ; 
and the child came smiling and crowing at its mother, who 
was supporting her own dying parent. 

“ Oh, Nancy ! ” said Sylvia ; “ what is the matter with 
mother ? yo’ can see her face ; tell me quick ! ” 

Nancy set the baby on the bed for all reply, and ran out 
of the room, crying out — 

“Master! master! Come quick! T’ old missus is 
a-dying ! ” 

This appeared to be no news to Sylvia, and yet the 
words came on her with a great shock ; but for all that she 
cpuld not cry ; she was surprised herself at her own deadness 
of feeling. 


415 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Her baby crawled to her, and she had to hold and guard 
both her mother and her child. It seemed a long, long time 
before any one came, and then she heard muffled voices, and 
a heavy tramp : it was Phoebe leading the doctor upstairs, 
and Nancy creeping in behind to hear his opinion. 

He did not ask many questions, and Phoebe replied more 
frequently to his inquiries than did Sylvia, who looked into 
his face with a blank, tearless, speechless despair, that gave 
him more pain than the sight of her dying mother. 

The long decay of Mrs. Eobson’s faculties and health, of 
which he was well aware, had in a certain manner prepared 
him for some such sudden termination of the life whose 
duration was hardly desirable, although he gave several 
directions as to her treatment ; but the white, pinched face, 
the great dilated eye, the slow comprehension of the younger 
woman, struck him with alarm ; and he went on asking for 
various particulars, more with a view of rousing Sylvia, if 
even it were to tears, than for any other purpose that the 
information thus obtained could answer. 

“ You had best have pillows propped up behind her — it 
will not be for long ; she does not know that you are holding 
her, and it is only tiring you to no purpose ! ” 

Sylvia’s terrible stare continued ; he put his advice into 
action, and gently tried to loosen her clasp, and tender hold. 
This she resisted ; laying her cheek against her poor mother’s 
unconscious face. 

“ Where is Hepburn ? ” said he. “ He ought to be 
here ! ” 

Phoebe looked at Nancy, Nancy at Phoebe. It was the 
latter who replied — 

“ He’s neither i’ t’ house nor i’ t’ shop. A seed him go 
past t’ kitchen window better nor an hour ago ; but neither 
William Coulson nor Hester Eose knows where he’s gone to.” 

Dr. Morgan’s lips were puckered up into a whistle ; but he 
made no sound. 

“ Give- me baby ! ” he said suddenly. Nancy had taken 
her up off the bed where she had been sitting, encircled by 

416 


Things Unutterable 

her mother’s arms. The nurse-maid gave her to the doctor. 
He watched the mother’s eye ; it followed her child, and he 
was rejoiced. He gave a little pinch to the hahy’s soft flesh, 
and she cried out piteously ; again the same action, the same 
result. Sylvia laid her mother down, and stretched out her 
arms for her child, hushing it, and moaning over it. 

“ So far so good ! ” said Dr. Morgan to himself. “ But 
where is the husband ? He ought to be here.” He went 
downstairs to make inquiry for Philip; that poor young 
creature, about whose health he had never felt thoroughly 
satisfied since the fever after her confinement, was in an 
anxious condition, and with an inevitable shock awaiting her. 
Her husband ought to be with her, and supporting her to 
bear it. 

Dr. Morgan went into the shop. Hester alone was there. 
Coulson had gone to his comfortable dinner at his well-ordered 
house, with his common-place wife. If he had felt anxious 
about Philip’s looks and strange disappearance, he had also 
managed to account for them in some indifferent way. 

Hester was alone with the shop-boy ; few people came 
in during the universal Monkshaven dinner-hour. She was 
resting her head on her hand, and puzzled and distressed 
about many things — all that was implied by the proceedings 
of the evening before between Philip and Sylvia ; and that 
was confirmed by Philip’s miserable looks and strange 
abstracted ways to-day. Oh ! how easy Hester would have 
found it to make him happy ! not merely how easy, but 
what happiness it would have been to her, to merge her 
every wish into the one great object of fulfilling his will ! 
To her, an onlooker, the course of married life, which should 
lead to perfect happiness, seemed so plain ! Alas ! it is often 
so ! and the resisting forces which make all such harmony 
and delight impossible are not recognised by the bystanders, 
hardly by the actors. But if these resisting forces are only 
superficial, or constitutional, they are but the necessary dis- 
cipline here, and do not radically affect the love which will 
make all things right in heaven. 

417 


2 E 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Some glimmering of this latter comforting truth shed its 
light on Hester’s troubled thoughts from time to time. But 
again, how easy would it have been to her to tread the maze 
that led to Philip’s happiness ; and how difficult it seemed to 
the wife he had chosen ! 

She was aroused by Dr. Morgan’s voice. 

“ So both Coulson and Hepburn have left the shop to your 
care, Hester. I want Hepburn, though ; his wife is in a very 
anxious state ! Where is he ? can you tell me ? ” 

“ Sylvia in an anxious state ! I’ve not seen her to-day, but 
last night she looked as well as could be.” 

“ Ay, ay ; but many a thing happens in four-and- twenty 
hours. Her mother is dying, may be dead by this time ; and 
her husband should be there with her. Can’t you send for 
him ? ” 

“ I don’t know where he is,” said Hester. “ He went off 
from here all on a sudden, when there was all the market-folks 
in t’ shop ; I thought he’d maybe gone to John Foster’s about 
th’ money, for they was paying a deal in. I’U send there and 
inquire.” 

No ! the messenger brought back word that he had not 
been seen at their bank all morning. Further inquiries were 
made by the anxious Hester, by the doctor, by Coulson ; all 
they could learn was that Phoebe had seen him pass the 
kitchen-window about eleven o’clock, when she was peeling 
the potatoes for dinner ; and two lads playing on the quay- 
side thought they had seen him among a group of sailors ; 
but these latter, as far as they could be identified, had no 
knowledge of his appearance among them. 

Before night, the whole town was excited about his dis- 
appearance. Before night. Bell Eobson had gone to her long 
home. And Sylvia still lay quiet and tearless, apparently 
more unmoved than any other creature by the events of the 
day, and the strange vanishing of her husband. 

The only thing she seemed to care for was her baby ; 
she held it tight in her arms, and Dr. Morgan bade them 
leave it there ; its touch might draw the desired tears into 

418 


Things Unutterable 

her weary, sleepless eyes, and charm the aching pain out 
of them. 

They were afraid lest she should inquire for her husband, 
whose non-appearance at such a time of sorrow to his wife 
must (they thought) seem strange to her. And night drew on 
while they were all in this state. She had gone back to her 
own room without a word, when they had desired her to do so • 
caressing her child in her arms, and sitting down on the first 
chair she came to, with a heavy sigh, as if even this slight 
bodily exertion had been too much for her. They saw her 
eyes turn towards the door every time it was opened, and 
they thought it was with anxious expectation of one who 
could not be found, though many were seeking for him in all 
probable places. 

• When night came, some one had to tell her of her husband’s 
disappearance ; and Dr. Morgan was the person who under- 
took this. 

He came into her room about nine o’clock ; her baby 
was sleeping in her arms ; she herself pale as death, still 
silent and tearless, though strangely watchful of gestures 
and sounds, and probably cognisant of more than they 
imagined. 

“ Well, Mrs. Hepburn,” said he, as cheerfully as he 
could, “ I should advise your going to bed early ; for I fancy 
your husband won’t come home to-night. Some journey or 
other, that perhaps Coulson can explain better than I can, 
will most likely keep him away till to-morrow. It’s very 
unfortunate that he should be away at such a sad time as 
this, as I’m sure he’ll feel when he returns ; but we must make 
the best of it.” 

He watched her to see the effect of his words. 

She sighed, that was all. He still remained a little while. 
She lifted her head up a little and asked — 

“ How long do yo’ think she was unconscious, doctor ? 
Could she hear things, think yo’, afore she fell into that 
strange kind o’ slumber? ” 

“ I cannot tell,” said he, shaking his head. “Was she 

419 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

breathing in that hard, snoring kind of way when you left her 
this morning ? ” 

“ Yes, I think so ; I cannot tell, so much has happened.” 

“ When you came back to her, after your breakfast, I think 
you said she was in much the same position ? ” 

“ Yes ; and yet I may be telling yo’ lies. If I could but 
think ! but it’s my head as is aching so ; doctor, I wish yo’d 
go, for I need being alone, I’m so mazed.” 

“ Good-night, then, for you’re a wise woman, I see, and 
mean to go to bed, and have a good night with baby there.” 

But he went down to Phoebe, and told her to go in from 
time to time, and see how her mistress was. 

He found Hester Eose and the old servant together ; both 
had been crying, both were evidently in great trouble about 
the death and the mystery of the day. 

Hester asked if she might go up and see Sylvia, and the 
doctor gave his leave, talking meanwhile with Phoebe over the 
kitchen fire. Hester came down again without seeing Sylvia. 
The door of the room was bolted, and everything quiet inside. 

“ Does she know where her husband is, think you ? ” 
asked the doctor at this account of Hester’s. “ She’s not 
anxious about him, at any rate : or else the shock of her 
mother’s death has been too much for her. We must hope 
for some change in the morning ; a good fit of crying, or a 
fidget about her husband, would be more natural. Good- 
night to you both,” and off he went. 

Phoebe and Hester avoided looking at each other at these 
words. Both were conscious of the probability of something 
having gone seriously wrong between the husband and wife. 
Hester had the recollection of the previous night, Phoebe the 
untasted breakfast of to-day to go upon. 

She spoke first — 

“ A just wish he’d come home to still folks’ tongues. It 
need niver ha’ been known, if t’ old lady hadn’t died this day 
of all others. It’s such a thing for t’ shop t’ have one o’ t’ 
partners missin’, an’ no one for t’ know what’s corned on him. 
It niver happened i’ Posters’ days, that’s a’ I know.” 

420 


Things Unutterable 

“ He’ll maybe come back yet,” said Hester. “ It’s not so 
very late.” 

“ It were market day, and a’,” continued Phoebe, ‘‘ just as 
if iverything mun go wrong together ; an’ a’ t’ country cus- 
tomers ’ll go back wi’ fine tale i’ their mouths, as Measter 
Hepburn was strayed an’ missin’, just like a beast o’ some 
kind.” 

“ Hark ! isn’t that a step ? ” said Hester suddenly, as a 
footfall sounded in the now quiet street ; but it passed the 
door, and the hope that had arisen on its approach fell as the 
sound died away. 

“ He’ll noane come to-night,” said Phoebe, who had been 
as eager a listener as Hester, however. “ Thou’d best go thy 
ways home ; a shall stay up, for it’s not seemly for us a’ t’ go 
to our beds, an’ a corpse in t’ house ; an’ Nancy, as might ha’ 
watched, is gone to her bed this hour past, like a lazy- boots 
as she is. A can hear, too, if t’ measter does come home ; 
tho’ a’ll be bound he wunnot ; choose wheere he is, he’ll be i’ 
bed by now, for it’s well on to eleven. I’ll let thee out by t’ 
shop-door, and stand by it till thou’s close at home ; for it’s ill 
for a young woman to be i’ t’ street so late.” 

So she held the door open, and shaded the candle from 
the flickering outer air, while Hester went to her home with 
a heavy heart. 

Heavily and hopelessly did they all meet in the morning. 
No news of Philip, no change in Sylvia ; an unceasing flow of 
angling and conjecture and gossip radiating from the shop into 
the town. 

Hester could have entreated Coulson on her knees to cease 
from repeating the details of a story of which every word 
touched on a raw place in her sensitive heart ; moreover, 
when they talked together so eagerly, she could not hear the 
coming footsteps on the pavement without. 

Once some one hit very near the truth in a chance 
remark. 

“ It seems strange,” she said, “ how as one man turns up, 
another just disappears. Why, it were but upo’ Tuesday as 

421 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Kinraid come back, as all his own folk had thought to be 
dead ; and, next day, here’s Measter Hepburn as is gone no 
one knows wheere ! ” 

“ That’s t’ way i’ this world,” replied Coulson, a little 
sententiously. “ This life is full o’ changes o’ one kind or 
another ; them that’s dead is alive ; and, as for poor Philip, 
though he was alive, he looked fitter to be dead when he came 
into t’ shop o’ Wednesday morning.” 

“ And how does she take it ? ” nodding to where Sylvia 
was supposed to be. 

“ Oh ! she’s not herself, so to say. She were just stunned 
by finding her mpther was dying in her very arms, when she 
thought as she were only sleeping ; yet she’s never been able 
to cry a drop ; so that t’ sorrow’s gone inwards on her brain, 
and, from all I can hear, she doesn’t rightly understand as 
her husband is missing. T’ doctor says, if she could but cry, 
she’d come to a juster comprehension of things.” 

“And what do John and Jeremiah Foster say to 
it all ? ” 

“ They’re down here many a time in t’ day to ask if he’s 
come back, or how she is ; for they made a deal on ’em both. 
They’re going t’ attend t’ funeral to-morrow, and have given 
orders as t’ shop is to be shut up in t’ morning.” 

To the surprise of every one, Sylvia, who had never left 
her room since the night of her mother’s death, and was 
supposed to be almost unconscious of all that was going on 
in the house, declared her intention of following her mother 
to the grave. No one could do more than remonstrate ; no 
one had sufficient authority to interfere with her. Dr. 
Morgan even thought that she might possibly be roused to 
tears by the occasion ; only he begged Hester to go with her, 
that she might have the solace of some woman’s company. 

She went through the greater part of the ceremony, in 
the same hard, unmoved manner in which she had received 
everything for days past. 

But on looking up once, as they formed round the open 
grave, she saw Kester, in his Sunday clothes, with a bit of 

422 


Mysterious Tidings 

new crape round his hat, crying as if his heart would break 
.over the coffin of his good, kind mistress. 

His evident distress, the unexpected sight, suddenly 
loosed the fountain of Sylvia’s tears, and her sobs grew so 
terrible that Hester feared she would not be able to remain 
until the end of the funeral. But she struggled hard to stay 
till the last, and then she made an effort to go round by the 
place where Kester stood. 

“ Come and see me,” was all she could say for crying : 
and Kester only nodded his head — he could not speak a 
word. 


CHAPTEE XXXVI 

MYSTERIOUS TIDINGS 

That very evening Kester came, humbly knocking at the 
kitchen-door. Phoebe opened it. He asked to see Sylvia. 

“ A know not if she’ll see thee,” said Phoebe. “ There’s 
no makin’ her out; sometimes she’s for one thing, some- 
times she’s for another.” 

“ She bid me come and see her,” said Kester. “ Only 
this mornin’, at missus’ buryin’, she telled me to come.” 

So Phoebe went off to inform Sylvia that Kester was 
there ; and returned with the desire that he would walk into 
the parlour. An instant after he was gone, Phoebe heard 
him return, and carefully shut the two doors of communica- 
tion between the kitchen and sitting-room. 

Sylvia was in the latter, when Kester came in, holding 
her baby close to her ; indeed, she seldom let it go now-a- 
days to any one else, making Nancy’s place quite a sinecure, 
much to Phoebe’s indignation. 

Sylvia’s face was shrunk, and white, and thin ; her lovely 
eyes alone retained the youthful, almost childlike, expression. 

423 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

She went up to Kester, and shook his horny hand, she 
herself trembling all over. 

“ Don’t talk to me of her,” she said hastily. “ I cannot 
stand it. It’s a blessing for her to be gone ; but, oh ” 

She began to cry, and then cheered herself up, and 
swallowed down her sobs. 

“ Kester,” she went on hastily, “ Charley Kinraid isn’t 
dead; dost ta know? He’s alive, and he were here o’ 
Tuesday — no, Monday, was it ? I cannot tell — but he were 
here ! ” 

“ A knowed as he weren’t dead. Every one is a-speaking 
on it. But a didn’t know as thee’d ha’ seen him. A took 
comfort i’ thinkin’ as thou’d ha’ been wi’ thy mother a’ t’ 
time as he were i’ t’ place.” 

“ Then he’s gone ? ” said Sylvia. 

“ Gone ; ay, days past. As far as a know, he but 
stopped a’ neet. A thought to mysel’ (but yo’ may be sure 
a said nought to nobody), he’s heerd as our Sylvia were 
married, and has put it in his pipe, and ta’en hissel’ off to 
smoke it.” 

“ Kester ! ” said Sylvia, leaning forwards, and whispering. 
“ I saw him. He was here. Philip saw him. Philip had 
known as he wasn’t dead a’ this time ! ” 

Kester stood up suddenly. 

“ By goom, that chap has a deal t’ answer for.” 

A bright red spot was on each of Sylvia’s white cheeks ; 
and for a minute or so neither of them spoke. 

Then she went on, still whispering out her words. 

“ Kester, I’m more afeared than I dare tell any one ; can 
they ha’ met, think yo’ ? T’ very thought turns me sick. I 
told Philip my mind, and took a vow again’ him — but it 
would be awful to think on harm happening to him through 
Kinraid. Yet he went out that morning, and has niver been 
seen or heard on sin’ ; and Kinraid were just fell again’ him, 
and, as for that matter, so was I ; but ” 

The red spot vanished, as she faced her own imagination. 

Kester spoke. 


Mysterious Tidings 

“ It’s a thing as can be easy looked into. What day an’ 
time were it when Philip left this house ? ” 

“Tuesday — the day she died. I saw him in > her room 
that morning between breakfast and dinner ; I could a ’most 
swear to its being close after eleven. I mind counting t’ 
clock. It was that very morn as Kinraid were here.” 

“ A’ll go an’ have a pint o’ beer at t’ King’s Arms, down 
on t’ quay-side ; it were theere he put up at. An’ a’m pretty 
sure as he only stopped one night, and left i’ t’ morning 
betimes. But a’ll go and see.” 

“ Do,” said Sylvia, “ and go out through t’ shop ; they’re 
all watching and watching me to see how I take things ; 
and I daren’t let on about t’ fire as is burning up my 
heart. Coulson is i’ t’ shop ; but he’ll not notice thee like 
Phoebe.” 

By-and-by, Kester came back. It seemed as though 
Sylvia had never stirred ; she looked eagerly at him, but did 
not speak. 

“ He went away i’ Bob Mason’s mail-cart, him as tak’s t’ 
letters to Hartlepool. T’ lieutenant (as they ca’ him down 
at t’ King’s Arms ; they’re as proud on his uniform as if it 
had been a new-painted sign to swing o’er their doors), t’ 
lieutenant had reckoned upo’ stayin’ longer wi’ ’em ; but he 
went out betimes o’ Tuesday morn, an’ came back a’ ruffled 
up, an’ paid his bill — paid for his breakfast, though he 
touched noane on it — an’ went off i’ Eob postman’s mail- 
cart, as starts reg’lar at ten o’clock. Corneys has been 
theere askin’ for him, an’ makin’ a piece o’ work, as he niver 
went near ’em ; and they bees cousins. Niver a one among 
’em knows as he were here, as far as a could mak’ out.” 

“ Thank yo’, Kester,” said Sylvia, falling back in her 
chair, as if all the energy that had kept her stiff and upright 
was gone, now that her anxiety was relieved. 

She was silent for a long time ; her eyes shut, her cheek 
laid on her child’s head. Kester spoke next. 

“ A think it’s pretty clear as they’n niver met. But it’s 
a’ t’ more wonder where thy husband’s gone to. Thee and 

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him had words about it, and thou tolled him thy mind, thou 
said?” 

“ Yes,” said Sylvia, not moving. “ I’m afeared lest 
mother knows what I said to him, there, where she’s gone 
to— I am” — the tears filled her shut eyes, and came softly 
overflowing down her cheeks ; “ and yet it were true, what I 
said, I cannot forgive him ; he’s just spoilt my life, and I’m 
not one-and-twenty yet, and he knowed how wretched, how 
very wretched, I were. A word fra’ him would ha’ mended 
it a’ ; and Charley had bid him speak the word, and give me 
his faithful love ; and Phihp saw my heart ache, day after 
day, and niver let on as him I was mourning for was alive, 
and had sent me word as he’d keep true to me, as I were to 
do to him.” 

“ A wish a’d been theere ; a’d ha’ felled him to t’ ground,” 
said Kester, clenching his stiff, hard hand with indignation. 

Sylvia was silent again : pale and weary she sate, her 
eyes still shut. 

Then she said — 

“ Yet he were so good to mother ; and mother loved him 
so. Oh, Kester ! ” lifting herself up, opening her great, wist- 
ful eyes, “ it’s well for folks as can die ; they’re spared a deal 
o’ misery.” 

“ Ay ! ” said he. “ But there’s folk as one ’ud like to 
keep fra’ shirkin’ their misery. Think yo’ now as Philip is 
livin’ ? ” 

Sylvia shivered all over, and hesitated before she replied. 

“ I dunnot know. I said such things ; he deserved ’em 
all ” 

“ Well, well, lass ! ” said Kester, sorry that he had asked 
the question which was producing so much emotion of one 
kind or another. “ Neither thee nor me can tell ; we can 
neither help nor hinder ; seein’ as he’s ta’en hissel’ off out on 
our sight, we’d best not think on him. A’ll try an’ tell thee 
some news, if a can think on it wi’ my mind so fuU. Thou 
knows Haytersbank folk ha’ flitted, and t’ oud place is 
empty ? ” 


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Mysterious Tidings 

“ Yes ! ” said Sylvia, with the indifference of one wearied 
out with feeling. 

“ A only tolled yo’ t’ account like for me bein’ at a loose 
end i’ Monkshaven. My sister, her as Hved at Dale End an’ 
is a widow, has corned inf town to live ; an’ a’m lodgin’ wi’ 
her, an’ jobbin’ about. A’m gettin’ pretty well to do, an’ a’m 
noane far f seek, an’ a’m going now : only first a just wanted 
for f say as a’m thy oldest friend, a reckon, and if a can do 
a tm-n for thee, or go an errand, like as a’ve done to-day, or 
if it’s any comfort to talk a bit to one who’s known thy life 
from a babby, why yo’ve only f send for me, an’ a’d come if 
it were twenty mile. A’m lodgin’ at Peggy Dawson’s, f lath 
and plaster cottage at f right hand o’ f bridge, a’ among f 
new houses, as they’re thinkin’ o’ buildin’ near f sea : no 
one can miss it.” 

He stood up and shook hands with her. As he did so, 
he looked at her sleeping baby. 

“ She’s liker yo’ than him. A think a’ll say, God bless 
her ! ” 

With the heavy sound of his outgoing footsteps, baby 
awoke. She ought before this time to have been asleep in 
her bed, and the disturbance made her cry fretfully. 

“ Hush thee, darling, hush thee ! ” murmured her mother ; 
“ there’s no one left to love me but thee, and I cannot stand 
thy weeping, my pretty one. Hush thee, my babe, hush 
thee ! ” 

She whispered soft in the little one’s ear, as she took her 
upstairs to bed. 

About three weeks after the miserable date of Bell 
Eobson’s death and Philip’s disappearance, Hester Eose re- 
ceived a letter from him. She knew the writing on the 
address well ; and it made her tremble so much that it was 
many minutes before she dared to open it, and make herself 
acquainted with the facts it might disclose. 

But she need not have feared ; there were no facts told, 
unless the vague date of “ London ” might be something to 
learn. Even that much might, have been found out by the 

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post-mark, only she had been too much taken by surprise to 
examine it. 

It ran as follows : — 

“ Deae Hestee, — Tell those whom it may concern, that I 
have left Monkshaven for ever. No one need trouble them- 
selves about me; I am provided for. Please to make my 
humble apologies to my kind friends, the Messrs. Foster, and 
to my partner, William Coulson. Please to accept of my 
love, and to join the same to your mother. Please to give 
my particular and respectful duty and kind love to my aunt 
Isabella Eobson. Her daughter Sylvia knows what I have 
always felt, and shall always feel, for her better than I can 
ever put into language, so I send her no message ; God 
bless and keep my child. You must all look on me as one 
dead ; as I am to you, and maybe shall soon be in reality. 

“ Your affectionate and obedient friend to command, 

“ Philip Hepbuen. 

“ P.S. — Oh, Hester ! for God’s sake and mine, look after 
(‘ my wife,’ scratched out) Sylvia and my child. I think 
Jeremiah Foster will help you to be a friend to them. This 
is the last solemn request of P. H. She is but very young.” 

Hester read this letter again and again, till her heart 
caught the echo of its hopelessness, and sank within her. 
She put it in her pocket, and reflected upon it all the day long 
as she served in the shop. 

The customers found her as gentle as usual, but far 
less attentive. She thought that in the evening she would 
go across the bridge and consult with the two good old 
brothers Foster. But something occurred to put off the ful- 
filment of this plan. 

That same morning Sylvia had preceded her, with no 
one to consult, because consultation would have required 
previous confidence, and confidence would have necessitated 
such a confession about Kinraid as it was most difficult for 
Sylvia to make. The poor young wife yet felt that some 

428 


Mysterious Tidings 

step must be taken by her ; and what it was to be she could 
not imagine. 

She had no home to go to; for, as Philip was gone 
away, she remained where she was only on sufferance ; 
she did not know what means of livelihood she had; she 
was willing to work, nay, would be thankful to take up her 
old life of country-labour; but, with her baby, what could 
she do ? 

In this dilemma, the recollection of the old man’s kindly 
speech and offer of assistance, made, it is true, half in joke, 
at the end of her wedding- visit, came into her mind; and 
she resolved to go and ask for some of the friendly counsel 
and assistance then offered. 

It would be the first time of her going out since her 
mother’s funeral, and she dreaded the effort on that account. 
More even than on that account did she shrink from going 
into the streets again. She could not get over the impression 
that Kinraid must be lingering near ; and she distrusted her- 
self so much that it was a positive terror to think of meeting 
him again. She felt as though, if she but caught a sight of 
him, of the glitter of his uniform, or heard his well-known voice 
in only a distant syllable of talk, her heart would stop, and 
she should die from very fright of what would come next. 
Or rather, so she felt and so she thought, before she took her 
baby in her arms, as Nancy gave it to her after putting on its 
out-of-door attire. 

With it in her arms she was protected, and the whole 
current of her thoughts was changed. The infant was 
wailing and suffering with its teething, and the mother’s 
heart was so occupied in soothing and consoling her moan- 
ing child, that the dangerous quay-side and the bridge were 
passed, almost before she was aware ; nor did she notice the 
eager curiosity and respectful attention of those she met, 
who recognised her even through the heavy veil which 
formed part of the mourning attire provided for her by 
Hester and Coulson, in the first unconscious days after her 
mother’s death. 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

Though public opinion as yet reserved its verdict upon 
Philip’s disappearance — warned, possibly, by Kinraid’s story 
against hasty decisions and judgments, in such times as these 
of war and general disturbance — yet every one agreed that 
no more pitiful fate could have befallen Philip’s wife. 

Sylvia had been marked out by her striking beauty as 
an object of admiring interest even in those days when 
she sate in girlhood’s smiling peace by her mother at the 
Market-Cross — her father had lost his life in a popular 
cause, and, ignominious as the manner of his death might 
be, he was looked upon as a martyr to his zeal in avenging 
the wrongs of his townsmen- she had married amongst 
them, too, and her quiet daily life was well known to them ; 
and now her husband had been carried off from her side, 
just on the very day when she needed his comfort most. 

For the general opinion was that Philip had been 
“ carried off” — in seaport- towns such occurrences were not 
uncommon in those days — either by land- crimps or water- 
crimps. 

So Sylvia was treated with silent reverence, as one sorely 
afflicted, by all the unheeded people she met in her faltering 
walk to Jeremiah Foster’s. 

She had calculated her time so as to fall in with him at 
his dinner-hour, even though it obliged her to go to his own 
house rather than to the bank where he and his brother 
spent all the business-hours of the day. 

Sylvia was so nearly exhausted by the length of her walk 
and the weight of her baby, that all she could do, when the 
door was opened, was to totter into the nearest seat, sit down, 
and begin to cry. 

In an instant kind hands were about her, loosening her 
heavy cloak, offering to relieve her of. her child, who clung 
to her all the more firmly, and some one was pressing a glass 
of wine against her lips. 

“No, sir, I cannot take it ! wine allays gives me th’ 
head-ache ; if I might have just a drink o’ water ? Thank 
you, ma’am ” (to the respectable-looking old servant), “ I’m 

430 


Mysterious Tidings 

well enough now ; and perhaps, sir, I might speak a word 
with yo’, for it’s that I’ve come for.” 

“ It’s a pity, Sylvia Hepburn, as thee didst not ‘come to 
me at the bank, for it’s been a long toil for thee all this way 
in the heat, with thy child. But if there’s aught I can do or 
say for thee, thou hast but to name it, I am sure. Martha ! 
wilt thou relieve her of her child, while she comes with me 
into the parlour ? ” 

But the wilful little Bella stoutly refused to go to any 
one, and Sylvia was not willing to part with her. tired though 
she was. 

So the baby was carried into the parlour ; and much of 
her after-life depended on this trivial fact. 

Once installed in the easy-chair, and face to face with 
Jeremiah, Sylvia did not know how to begin. 

Jeremiah saw this, and kindly gave her time to recover 
herself, by pulling out his great gold watch, and letting the 
seal dangle before the child’s eyes, almost within reach of 
the child’s eager little fingers. 

“ She favours you a deal,” said he at last. “ More than 
her father,” he went on, purposely introducing Philip’s name, 
so as to break the ice ; for he rightly conjectured she had 
come to speak to him about something connected with her 
husband. 

Still Sylvia said nothing ; she was choking down tears 
and shyness, and unwillingness to take as confidant a man 
of whom she knew so little, on such slight ground (as she 
now felt it to be) as the little kindly speech with which 
she had been dismissed from that house the last time that 
she entered it. 

“ It’s no use keeping yo’, sir,” she broke out at last. 
“It’s about Philip as I corned to speak. Do yo’ know 
anything whatsomever about him ? He niver had a chance 
o’ saying anything, I know ; but maybe he’s written ? ” 

“Not a line, my poor young woman ! ” said Jeremiah, 
hastily putting an end to that vain idea. 

“ Then he’s either dead or gone away for iver,” she 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

whispered. “ I mun be both feytber and mother to my 
child.” 

“ Oh ! thee must not give it up,” replied he. “‘Many a 
one is carried off to the wars, or to the tenders o’ men-o’-war ; 
and then they turn out to be unfit for service, and are sent 
home. Philip ’ll come back before the year’s out ; thee’ll 
see that.” 

“ No ; he’ll niver come back. And I’m not sure as I 
should iver wish him t’ come back, if I could but know what 
was gone wi’ him. Yo’ see, sir, though I were sore set 
again’ him, I shouldn’t like harm to happen him.” 

“ There is something behind all this that I do not 
understand. Can thee tell me what it is ? ” 

“ I must, sir, if yo’re to help me wi’ your counsel ; and 
I came up here to ask for it.” 

Another long pause, during which Jeremiah made a feint 
of playing with the child, who danced and shouted with 
tantalised impatience at not being able to obtain possession of 
the seal, and at length stretched out her soft round little arms 
to go to the owner of the coveted possession. Surprise at this 
action roused Sylvia, and she made some comment upon it. 

“ I niver knew her t’ go to any one afore. I hope she’ll 
not be troublesome to yo’, sir ? ” 

The old man, who had often longed for a child of his own, 
in days gone by, was highly pleased by this mark of baby’s 
confidence, and almost forgot, in trying to strengthen her 
regard by all the winning wiles in his power, how her poor 
mother was still lingering over some painful story which she 
could not bring herself to tell. 

“I’m af eared of speaking wrong again’ any one, sir. 
And mother were so fond o’ Philip ; but he kept something 
from me as would ha’ made me a different woman, and some 
one else, mappen, a different man. I were troth-plighted wi’ 
Kinraid, the specksioneer, him as was cousin to th’ Gorneys 
o’ Moss Brow, and corned back lieutenant i’ t’ navy last 
Tuesday three weeks, after ivery one had thought him dead 
and gone these three years.” 


432 


Mysterious Tidings 

She paused. 

“ Well ? ” said Jeremiah, with interest ; although his atten- 
tion appeared to be divided between the mother’s story and 
the eager playfulness of the baby on his knee. 

“ Philip knew he were alive ; he’d seen him taken by t’ 
press-gang, and Charley had sent a message to me by 
Philip.” 

Her white face was reddening, her eyes flashing, at this 
point of her story. 

“ And he niver told me a word on it, not when he saw 
me like to break my heart in thinking as Kinraid were dead ; 
he kept it a’ to hissel’ ; and watched me cry, and niver said 
a word to comfort me wi’ t’ truth. It would ha’ been a great 
comfort, sir, only t’ have had his message, if I’d niver ha’ 
been to see him again. But Philip niver let on to any one, 
as I iver beared on, that he’d seen Charley that morning as 
t’ press-gang took him. Yo’ know about feyther’s death, 
and how friendless mother and me was left ? and so I married 
him ; for he were a good friend to us then, and I were dazed 
like wi’ sorrow, and could see naught else to do for mother. 
He were allays very tender and good to her, for sure.” 

Again a long pause of silent recollection, broken by one 
or two deep sighs. 

“ If I go on, sir, now, I mun ask yo’ to promise as yo’ll 
niver tell. I do so need some one to tell me what I ought 
to do, and I were led here, like ; else I would ha’ died wi’ it 
all within my teeth. Yo’ll promise, sir ? ” 

Jeremiah Foster looked in her face ; and, seeing the wistful, 
eager look, he was touched almost against his judgment into 
giving the promise required. She went on : 

“ Upon a Tuesday morning, three weeks ago, I think, tho’ 
for t’ matter o’ time it might ha’ been three years, Kinraid 
come home ; come back for t’ claim me as his wife, and I 
were wed to Philip ! I met him i’ t’ road at first ; and I 
couldn’t tell him theere. He followed me into t’ house — 
Philip’s house, sir, behind t’ shop — and somehow I told him 
all how I were a wedded wife to another. Then he up and 

433 2 F 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

said I’d a false heart — me false, sir, as had eaten my daily 
bread in bitterness, and had wept t’ nights through, all for 
sorrow and mourning for his death ! Then he said as Philip 
knowed all t’ time he were alive and coming back for me ; 
and I couldn’t believe it, and I called Philip, and he come, 
and a’ that Charley had said were true; and yet I were 
Philip’s wife ! So I took a mighty oath, and I said as I’d 
niver hold Philip, to be my lawful husband again, nor iver 
forgive him for t’ evil he’d wrought us, but hold him as a 
stranger and one as had done me a heavy wrong.” 

She stopped speaking ; her story seemed to her to end 
there. But her listener said, after a pause — 

“ It were a cruel wrong, I grant thee that ; but thy oath 
were a sin, and thy words were evil, my poor lass. What 
happened next ? ” 

“ I don’t justly remember,” she said wearily. “ Kinraid 
went away, and mother cried out ; and I went to her. She 
were asleep, I thought, so I lay down by her, to wish I 
were dead, and to think on what would come on my child 
if I died ; and Philip came in softly, and I made as if I were 
asleep ; and that’s t’ very last as I’ve iver seen or beared of 
him.” 

Jeremiah Foster groaned, as she ended her story. Then 
he pulled himself up, and said, in a cheerful tone of voice — 

“ He’ll come back, Sylvia Hepburn. He’ll think better of 
it : never fear ! ” 

“ I fear his coming back ! ” said she. “ That’s what I’m 
feared on ; I would wish as I knew on his well-doing i’ some 
other place ; but him and me can niver live together again.” 

“Nay,” pleaded Jeremiah. “ Thee art sorry for what 
thee said ; thee were sore put about, or thee wouldn’t have 
said it.” 

He was trying to be a peace-maker, and to heal over 
conjugal differences ; but he did not go deep enough. 

“I’m not sorry,” said she slowly. “ I were too deeply 
wronged to be ‘ put about ’ ; that would go off wi’ a night’s 
sleep. It’s only the thought of mother (she’s dead and happy, 

434 


Mysterious Tidings 

and knows nought of all this, I trust) that comes between 
me and hating Philip. I’m not sorry for what I said.” 

J eremiah had never met with any one so frank and undis- 
guised in expressions of wrong feeling, and he scarcely knew 
what to say. 

He looked extremely grieved, and not a little shocked. 
So pretty and delicate a young creature to use such strong, 
relentless language ! 

She seemed to read his thoughts, for she made answer to 
them. 

“I dare say you think I’m very wicked, sir, not to be 
sorry. Perhaps I am. I can’t think o’ that, for remember- 
ing how I’ve suffered ; and he knew how miserable I was, 
and might ha’ cleared my misery away wi’ a word ; and he 
held his peace, and now it’s too late! I’m sick o’ men and 
their cruel, deceitful ways. I wish I were dead 1 ” 

She was crying before she had ended this speech ; and, 
seeing her tears, the child began to cry too, stretching out its 
little arms to go back to its mother. The hard, stony look 
on her face melted away into the softest, tenderest love, as she 
clasped the little one to her, and tried to soothe its frightened 
sobs. 

A bright thought came into the old man’s mind. 

He had been taking a complete dislike to her, till her 
pretty way with her baby showed him that she had a heart 
of flesh within her. 

“ Poor little one ! ” said he, “ thy mother had need love 
thee, for she’s deprived thee of thy father’s love. Thou’rt 
half-way to being an orphan ; yet I cannot call thee one of 
the fatherless to whom God will be a father. Thou’rt a 
desolate babe ; thou may’st well cry ; thine earthly parents 
have forsaken thee, and I know not if the Lord will take 
thee up.” 

Sylvia looked up at him affrighted; holding her baby 
tighter to her, she exclaimed — 

“ Don’t speak so, sir ! it’s cursing, sir 1 I haven’t forsaken 
her ! Oh, sir ! those are awful sayings.” 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Thee hast sworn never to forgive thy husband, nor to 
live with him again. Dost thee know that, by the law of the 
land, he may claim his child ; and then thou wilt have to 
forsake it, or to be forsworn ? Poor little maiden ! ” con- 
tinued he, once more luring the baby to him with the 
temptation of the watch and chain. 

Sylvia thought for a while, before speaking. Then she 
said — 

“ I cannot tell what ways to take. Whiles, I think my 
head is crazed. It were a cruel turn he did me ! ” 

“ It was. I couldn't have thought him guilty of such 
baseness.” 

This acquiescence, which was perfectly honest on 
Jeremiah’s part, almost took Sylvia by surprise. Why 
might she not hate one who had been both cruel and base 
in his treatment of her ? And yet she recoiled from the 
application of such hard terms by another to Philip, by a 
cool- judging and indifferent person, as she esteemed Jeremiah 
to be. From some inscrutable turn in her thoughts, she 
began to defend him, or at least to palliate the hard judgment 
which she herself had been the first to pronounce. 

“ He were so tender to mother ; she were dearly fond on 
him ; he niver spared aught he could do for her ; else I would 
niver ha’ married him.” 

“ He was a good and kind-hearted lad, from the time he 
was fifteen. And I never found him out in any falsehood ; 
no more did my brother.” 

“ But it were all the same as a lie,” said Sylvia, swiftly 
changing her ground, “ to leave me to think as Charley were 
dead, when he knowed all t’ time he were alive.” 

“ It was. It was a self-seeking lie ; putting thee to pain, 
to get his own ends. And the end of it has been that he is 
driven forth like Cain.” 

“ I niver told him to go, sir.” 

“ But thy words sent him forth, Sylvia.” 

“ I cannot unsay them, sir ; and I believe as I should say 
them again.” 


436 


a con- 


Mysterious Tidings 

But she said this as one who rather hopes for 
tradiction. 

All Jeremiah replied, however, was, “Poor wee child!” 
in a pitiful tone, addressed to the bahy. 

Sylvia’s eyes filled with tears. 

“ Oh, sir. I’ll do anything as iver yo’ can tell me for her. 
That’s what I came for t’ ask yo’. I know I mun not stay 
theere, and Philip gone away ; and I dunnot know what to 
do : and I’ll do aught, only I must keep her wi’ me. What- 
iver can I do, sir ? ” 

J eremiah thought it over for a minute or two. Then he 
replied — 

“ I must have time to think. I must talk it over with 
brother John.” 

“ But yo’ve given me yo’r word, sir 1 ” exclaimed she. 

“ I have given thee my word never to tell any one of 
what has passed between thee and thy husband ; but I must 
take counsel with my brother as to what is to be done with 
thee and thy child, now that thy husband has left the shop.” 

This was said so gravely as almost to be a reproach ; and 
he got up, as a sign that the interview was ended. 

He gave the baby back to its mother ; but not without a 
solemn blessing, so solemn that, to Sylvia’s superstitious and 
excited mind, it undid the terrors of what she had esteemed 
to be a curse. 

“ The Lord bless thee and keep thee 1 The Lord make 
His face to shine upon thee 1 ” 

All the way down the hill-side, Sylvia kept kissing the 
child, and whispering to its unconscious ears — 

“ I’ll love thee for both, my treasure, I will. I’ll lap 
thee round wi’ my love, so as thou shall niver need a 
feyther’s.” 


437 


Sylvia’s Lovers 


CHAPTEB XXXVII 

BEEEAVEMENT 

Hestee had been prevented by her mother’s indisposition 
from taking Philip’s letter to the Fosters, to hold a consulta- 
tion with them over its contents. 

Alice Eose was slowly failing ; and the long days which 
she had to spend alone told much upon her spirits, and 
consequently upon her health. 

All this came out in the conversation which ensued after 
reading Hepburn’s letter, in the little parlour at the bank, on 
the day after Sylvia had had her confidential interview with 
Jeremiah Foster. 

He was a true man of honour, and never so much as 
alluded to her visit to him ; but what she had then told him 
influenced him very much in the formation of the project 
which he proposed to his brother and Hester. 

He recommended her remaining where she was, living 
still in the house behind the shop ; for he thought within 
himself that she might have exaggerated the effect of her 
words upon Philip ; that, after all, it might have been some 
cause totally disconnected with them which had blotted out 
her husband’s place among the men of Monkshaven ; and 
that it would be so much easier for both to resume their 
natural relations, both towards each other and towards the 
world, if Sylvia remained where her husband had left her — 
in an expectant attitude, so to speak. 

Jeremiah Foster questioned Hester straitly about her 
letter : whether she had made known its contents to any 
one. No, not to any one. Neither to her mother nor to 
William Coulson ? No, to neither. 

She looked at him, as she replied to his inquiries, and 
he looked at her — each wondering if the other could be in 
the least aware that a conjugal quarrel might be at the root 

43 ^ 


Bereavement 

of the dilemma in which they were placed by Hepburn’s 
disappearance. 

But neither Hester, who had witnessed the misunder- 
standing between the husband and wife, on the evening 
before the morning on which Philip went away, nor Jeremiah 
Foster, who had learnt from Sylvia the true reason of her 
husband’s disappearance, gave the slightest reason to the 
other to think that they each supposed they had a clue to 
the reason of Hepburn’s sudden departure. 

What Jeremiah Foster, after a night’s consideration, had 
to propose was this : that Hester and her mother should 
come and occupy the house in the market-place, conjointly 
with Sylvia and her child. Hester’s interest in the shop 
was by this time acknowledged. Jeremiah had made over to 
her so much of his share in the business, that she had a 
right to be considered as a kind of partner; and she had 
long been the superintendent of the department of goods 
which were exclusively devoted to women. So her daily 
presence was requisite for more reasons than one. 

Yet her mother’s health and spirits were such as to 
render it inadvisable that the old woman should be too much 
left alone ; and Sylvia’s devotion to her own mother seemed 
to point her out as the very person who could be a gentle 
and tender companion to Alice Eose, during those hours 
when her own daughter would necessarily be engaged in the 
shop. 

Many desirable objects seemed to be gained by this 
removal of Alice : an occupation was provided for Sylvia, 
which would detain her in the place where her husband had 
left her, and where (Jeremiah Foster fairly expected, in spite 
of his letter) he was likely to come back to find her ; and 
Alice Eose, the early love of one of the brothers, the old 
friend of the other, would be well cared for, and under her 
daughter’s immediate supervision during the whole of the 
time that she was occupied in the shop. 

Philip’s share of the business, augmented by the money 
which he had put in from the legacy of his old Cumberland 

439 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

tincle, would bring in profits enough to support Sylvia and 
her child in ease and comfort until that time, which they 
all anticipated, when he should return from his mysterious 
wandering — mysterious, whether his going forth had been 
voluntary or involuntary. 

Thus far it was settled ; and Jeremiah Foster went to tell 
Sylvia of the plan. 

She was too much a child, too entirely unaccustomed to 
any independence of action, to do anything but leave her- 
self in his hands. Her very confession, made to him the 
day before, when she sought his counsel, seemed to place 
her at his disposal. Otherwise, she had had notions of the 
possibility of a free country-life once more — how provided 
for and arranged, she hardly knew ; but Haytersbank was to 
let, and Kester disengaged, and it had just seemed possible 
that she might have to return to her early home, and to her 
old life. She knew that it would take much money to stock 
the farm again, and that her hands were tied from much 
useful activity by the love and care she owed to her baby. 
But still, somehow, she hoped and she fancied, till Jeremiah 
Foster’s measured words and carefully-arranged plan made 
her silently relinquish her green, breezy vision. 

Hester, too, had her own private rebellion — hushed into 
submission by her gentle piety. If Sylvia had been able to 
make Philip happy, Hester could have felt lovingly and 
almost gratefully towards her ; but Sylvia had failed in this. 

Philip had been made unhappy, and was driven forth a 
wanderer into the wide world — never to come back ! And 
his last words to Hester — the postscript of his letter, contain- 
ing the very pith of it — were to ask her to take charge and 
care of the wife, whose want of love towards him had 
uprooted him from the place where he was valued and 
honoured. 

It caused Hester many a struggle and many a self- 
reproach, before she could make herself feel what she saw 
all along — that in everything Philip treated her like a sister. 
But even a sister might well be indignant, if she saw her 

440 


Bereavement 

brother’s love disregarded and slighted, and his life embittered, 
by the thoughtless conduct of a wife ! Still Hester fought 
against herself, and for Philip’s sake she sought to see the 
good in Sylvia, and she strove to love her as well as to take 
care of her. 

With the baby, of course, the case was different. Without 
thought or struggle, or reason, every one loved the little girl. 
Coulson and his buxom wife, who were childless, were never 
weary of making much of her. Hester’s happiest hours were 
spent with that little child. Jeremiah Foster almost looked 
upon her as his own, from the day when she honoured him 
by yielding to the temptation of the chain and seal, and 
coming to his knee ; not a customer to the shop but knew 
the smiling child’s sad history, and many a country-woman 
would save a rosy-cheeked apple from out her store that 
autumn, to bring it on next market-day for “ P hili p Hepburn’s 
baby, as had lost its father, bless it.” 

Even stern Alice Bose was graciously inclined towards 
the little Bella ; and, though her idea of the number of the 
elect was growing narrower and narrower every day, she 
would have been loth to exclude the innocent little child, 
that stroked her wrinkled cheeks so softly every night in 
retmn for her blessing, from the few that should be saved. 
Nay, for the child’s sake, she relented towards the mother ; 
and strove to have Sylvia rescued from the many cast-aways, 
with fervent prayer, or, as she phrased it, “ wrestling with 
the Lord.” 

Alice had a sort of instinct that the little child, so tenderly 
loved by, so fondly loving, the mother whose ewe-lamb she 
was, could not be even in heaven without yearning for the 
creature she had loved best on earth; and the old woman 
believed that this was the principal reason for her prayers 
for Sylvia; but, unconsciously to herself, Alice Bose was 
touched by the filial attentions she constantly received from 
the young mother, whom she believed to be fore-doomed to 
condemnation. 

Sylvia rarely went to church or chapel, nor did she read 
441 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

her Bible ; for, though she spoke little of her ignorance, and 
would fain, for her child’s sake, have remedied it now it was 
too late, she had lost what little fluency of reading she had 
ever had, and could only make out her words with much 
spelling and difficulty. So the taking her Bible in hand 
would have been a mere form ; though of this Alice Bose 
knew nothing. 

No one knew much of what was passing in Sylvia ; she 
did not know herself. Sometimes in the nights she would 
waken, crying, with a terrible sense of desolation ; every one 
who loved her, or whom she had loved, had vanished out of 
her life ; every one but her child, who lay in her arms, warm 
and soft. 

But then Jeremiah Foster’s words came upon her ; words 
that she had taken for cursing at the time ; and she would 
so gladly have had some clue by which to penetrate the 
darkness of the unknown region from whence both blessing 
and cursing came, and to know if she had indeed done some- 
thing which should cause her sin to be visited on that soft, 
sweet, innocent darling. 

If any one would teach her to read ! If any one would 
explain to her the hard words she heard in church or chapel, 
so that she might find out the meaning of sin and godliness ! 
— words that had only passed over the surface of her mind 
till now ! For her child’s sake she should like to do the will 
of God, if she only knew what that was, and how to be 
worked out in her daily life. 

But there was no one she dared confess her ignorance to, 
and ask information from. Jeremiah Foster had spoken as 
if her child, sweet little merry Bella, with a loving word and 
a kiss for every one, was to suffer heavily for the just and 
true words her wronged and indignant mother had spoken. 
Alice always spoke as if there were no hope for her ; and 
blamed her, nevertheless, for not using the means of grace 
that it was not in her power to avail herself of. 

And Hester, that Sylvia would fain have loved for her 
uniform gentleness and patience with all around her, seemed 

442 


Bereavement 

SO cold in her unruffled and undemonstrative behaviour; 
and, moreover, Sylvia felt that Hester blamed her perpetual 
silence regarding Philip’s absence, without knowing how 
bitter a cause Sylvia had had for casting him off. 

The only person who seemed to have pity upon her was 
Kester ; and his pity was shown in looks rather than words ; 
for when he came to see her, which he did from time to 
time, by a kind of mutual tacit consent they spoke but little 
of former days. 

He was still lodging with his sister, widow Moore, work- 
ing at odd jobs, some of which took him into the country for 
weeks at a time. But, on his returns to Monkshaven, he was 
sure to come and see her and the little Bella ; indeed, when 
his employment was in the immediate neighbourhood of the 
town, he never allowed a week to pass away without a visit. 

There was not much conversation between him and 
Sylvia at such times. They skimmed over the surface of 
the small events in which both took an interest ; only now 
and then a sudden glance, a checked speech, told each that 
there were deeps not forgotten, although they were never 
mentioned. 

Twice Sylvia — below her breath — had asked Kester, just 
as she was holding the door open for his departure, if any- 
thing had ever been heard of Kinraid since his one night’s 
visit to Monkshaven : each time (and there was an interval 
of some months between the inquiries) the answer had been 
simply, no. 

To no one else would Sylvia ever have named his name. 
But indeed she had not the chance, had she wished it ever 
so much, of asking any questions about him from any one 
likely to know. The Corneys had left Moss Brow at 
Martinmas, and gone many miles away towards Horncastle. 
Bessy Corney, it is true, was married and left behind in the 
neighbourhood; but with her Sylvia had never been inti- 
mate ; and what girlish friendship there might have been 
between them had cooled very much at the time of Kinraid’s 
supposed death, three years before. 

443 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

One day before Christmas in this year, 1798, Sylvia was 
called into the shop by Coulson, who, with his assistant, was 
busy undoing the bales of winter goods, supplied to them 
from the West Eiding and other pldces. He was looking 
at a fine Irish poplin dress-piece when Sylvia answered to 
his call. 

“ Here ! do you know this again ? ” asked he, in the 
cheerful tone of one sure of giving pleasure. 

“ No ! have I iver seen it afore ? ” 

“ Not this, but one for all t’ world like it.” 

She did not rouse up to much interest, but looked at it 
as if trying to recollect where she could have seen its like. 

“ My missus had one on at th’ party at John Foster’s 
last March, and yo’ admired it a deal. And Philip, he 
thought o’ nothing but how he could get yo’ just such 
another, and he set a vast o’ folk agait for to meet wi’ its 
fellow; and what he did, just the very day afore he went 
away so mysterious, was to write through Dawson Brothers, 
o’ Wakefield, to Dublin, and order that one should be woven 
for yo’. Jemima had to cut a bit off hers for to give him t’ 
exact colour.” 

Sylvia did not say anything but that it was very pretty, 
in a low voice ; and then she quickly left the shop, much to 
Coulson’s displeasure. 

All the afternoon she was unusually quiet and depressed. 

Alice Eose, sitting helpless in her chair, watched her 
with keen eyes. 

At length, after one of Sylvia’s deep, unconscious sighs, 
the old woman spoke — 

“ It’s religion as must comfort thee, child, as it’s done 
many a one afore thee.” 

“ How ? ” said Sylvia, looking up, startled to find herself 
an object of notice. 

“ How ? ” (The answer was not quite so ready as the 
precept had been.) “ Eead thy Bible, and thou wilt learn.” 

“But I cannot read,” said Sylvia, too desperate any 
longer to conceal her ignorance. 

444 


Bereavement 

“ Not read ! and thee Philip’s wife as was such a great 
scholar ! Of a surety, the ways o’ this life are crooked ! 
There was our Hester, as can read as well as any minister, 
and Philip passes over her to go and choose a young lass as 
cannot read her Bible.” 

“ Was Philip and Hester ” 

Sylvia paused, for though a new curiosity had dawned 
upon her, she did not know how to word her question. 

“ Many a time and oft have I seen Hester take comfort 
in her Bible, when Philip was following after thee. She 
knew where to go for consolation.” 

“ I’d fain read,” said Sylvia humbly, “ if anybody would 
learn me ; for perhaps it might do me good ; I’m noane so 
happy.” 

Her eyes, as she looked up at Alice’s stern countenance, 
were full of tears. 

The old woman saw it, and was touched, although she 
did not immediately show her sympathy. But she took her 
own time, and made no reply. 

The next day, however, she bade Sylvia come to her, 
and then and there, as if her pupil had been a little child, 
she began to teach Sylvia to read the first chapter of 
Genesis; for all other reading but the Scriptures was as 
vanity to her, and she would not condescend to the weak- 
ness of other books. Sylvia was now, as ever, slow at 
book-learning ; but she was meek and desirous to be taught, 
and her willingness in this respect pleased Alice, and drew 
her singularly towards one who, from being a pupil, might 
become a convert. 

All this time, Sylvia never lost the curiosity that had 
been excited by the few words Alice had let drop about 
Hester and Philip, and by degrees she approached the 
subject again, and had the idea then started confirmed by 
Alice, who had no scruple in using the past experience of 
her own, of her daughter’s, or of any one’s life, as an instru- 
men to prove the vanity of setting the heart on anything 
earthly. 


445 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

This knowledge, unsuspected before, sank deep into 
Sylvia’s thoughts, and gave her a strange interest in Hester 
— poor Hester, whose life she had so crossed and blighted, 
even by the very blighting of her own. She gave Hester 
her own former passionate feelings for Kinraid, and won- 
dered how she herself should have felt towards any one who 
had come between her and him, and wiled his love away. 
When she remembered Hester’s unfailing sweetness and 
kindness towards herself, from the very first, she could better 
bear the comparative coldness of her present behaviour. 

She tried, indeed, hard to win back the favour she had 
lost ; but the very means she took were blunders, and only 
made it seem to her as if she could never again do right in 
Hester’s eyes. 

For instance, she begged her to accept and wear the 
pretty poplin gown which had been Philip’s especial choice ; 
feeling within herself as if she should never wish to put it 
on, and as if the best thing she could do with it was to offer 
it to Hester. But Hester rejected the proffered gift, with as 
much hardness of manner as she was capable of assuming ; 
and Sylvia had to carry it upstairs and lay it by for the 
little daughter, who, Hester said, might perhaps learn to 
value things that her father had given especial thought to. 

Yet Sylvia went on trying to win Hester to like her once 
more ; it was one of her great labours, and learning to read 
from Hester’s mother was another. 

Alice, indeed, in her solemn way, was becoming quite 
fond of Sylvia ; if she could not read or write, she had a 
deftness and gentleness of motion, a capacity for the house- 
hold matters which fell into her department, that had a 
great effect on the old woman ; and, for her dear mother’s 
sake, Sylvia had a stock of patient love ready in her heart 
for all the aged and infirm that fell in her way. She never 
thought of seeking them out, as she knew that Hester did ; 
but then she looked up to Hester as some one very remark- 
able for her goodness. If only she could have liked her ! 

Hester tried to do all she could for Sylvia ; Philip had 
446 


Bereavement 

told her to take care of his wife and child ; but she had the 
conviction that Sylvia had so materially failed in her duties 
as to have made her husband an exile from his home — a 
penniless wanderer, wifeless and childless, in some strange 
country, whose very aspect was friendless, while the cause 
of all lived on in the comfortable home where he had placed 
her, wanting for nothing — an object of interest and regard 
to many friends — with a lovely little child to give her joy 
for the present, and hope for the future ; while he, the poor 
outcast, might even lie dead by the wayside. How could 
Hester love Sylvia ? 

Yet they were frequent companions that ensuing spring. 
Hester was not well ; and the doctors said that the constant 
occupation in the shop was too much for her, and that she 
must, for a time at least, take daily walks into the country. 

Sylvia used to beg to accompany her ; she and the little 
girl often went with Hester up the valley of the river to 
some of the nestling farms that were hidden in the more 
sheltered nooks — for Hester was bidden to drink milk, warm 
from the cow ; and to go into the familiar haunts about a 
farm was one of the few things in which Sylvia seemed to 
take much pleasure. She would let little Bella toddle about, 
while Hester sate and rested : and she herself would beg to 
milk the cow destined to give the invalid her draught. 

One May evening, the three had been out on some such 
expedition ; the country-side still looked grey and bare, 
though the leaves were showing on the willow and black- 
thorn and sloe, and by the tinkling runnels, making hidden 
music along the copse side, the pale delicate primose-buds 
were showing amid their fresh, green, crinkled leaves. The 
larks had been singing all the afternoon, but were now 
dropping down into their nests in the pasture-fields ; the air 
had just the sharpness in it which goes along with a cloud- 
less evening sky at that time of the year. 

But Hester walked homewards slowly and languidly, 
speaking no word. Sylvia noticed this at first without 
venturing to speak, for Hester was one who disliked having 

447 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

her ailments noticed. But, after a while, Hester stood still 
in a sort of weary, dreamy abstraction ; and Sylvia said to 
her — 

“ I’m afeared yo’re sadly tired. Maybe we’ve been too 
far.” 

Hester almost -started. 

“ No ! ” said she, “ it’s only my headache which is worse 
to-night. It has been bad all day ; but since I came out it 
has felt just as if there were great guns booming, till I could 
almost pray ’em to be quiet. I am so weary o’ th’ sound.” 

She stepped out quickly towards home after she had said 
this, as if she wished for neither pity nor comment on what 
she had said. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 

THE RECOGNITION 

Ear away, over sea and land, over sunny sea again, great 
guns were booming on that 7th of May, 1799. 

The Mediterranean came up with a long roar, on a 
beach glittering white with snowy sand, and the fragments of 
innumerable sea-shells, delicate and shining as porcelain. 
Looking at that shore from the sea, a long ridge of upland 
ground, beginning from an inland depth, stretched far away 
into the ocean on the right, till it ended in a great moun- 
tainous bluff, crowned with the white buildings of a convent, 
sloping rapidly down into the blue water at its base. 

In the stern eastern air, the different characters of the 
foliage that clothed the sides of that sea-washed mountain 
might be discerned from a long distance by the naked eye ; 
the silver grey of the olive-trees near its summit ; the heavy 
green and bossy forms of the sycamores lower down ; broken 
here and there by a solitary terebinth or ilex tree, of a deeper 

448 


The Recognition 

green and a wider spread; till the eye fell below on the 
maritime plain, edged with the white seaboard and the 
sandy hillocks ; with here and there feathery palm-trees, 
either, isolated or in groups — motionless and distinct against 
the hot purple air. 

Look again ; a little to the left on the sea-shore there are 
the white walls of a fortified town, gilttering in sunlight, or 
black in shadow. 

The fortifications themselves run out into the sea, form- 
ing a port and a haven against the wild Levantine storms ; 
and a lighthouse rises out of the waves to guide mariners 
into safety. 

Beyond this walled city, and far away to the left still, 
there is the same wide plain, shut in by the distant rising 
ground, till the upland circuit comes closing in to the north, 
and the great white rocks meet the deep tideless ocean, with 
its intensity of blue colour. 

Above, the sky is literally purple with heat ; and the piti- 
less light smites the gazer’s weary eye as it comes back from 
the white shore. Nor does the plain-country, in that land, 
offer the refuge and rest of our own soft green. The lime- 
stone rock underlies the vegetation, and gives a glittering, 
ashen hue to all the bare patches, and even to the cultivated 
parts which are burnt up early in the year. In spring-time 
alone does the country look rich and fruitful ; then the corn- 
fields of the plain show their capability of bearing, “ some 
fifty, some an hundred fold ” ; down by the brook Kishon, 
flowing not far from the base of the mountainous promontory 
to the south, there grow the broad green fig-trees, cool and 
fresh to look upon ; the orchards are full of glossy-leaved 
cherry-trees ; the tall amaryllis puts forth crimson and yellow 
glories in the fields, rivalling the pomp of King Solomon ; the 
daisies and the hyacinths spread their myriad flowers ; the 
anemones, scarlet as blood, run hither and thither over 
the ground, like dazzling flames of fire. 

A spicy odour lingers in the heated air ; it comes from 
the multitude of aromatic flowers that blossom in the early 

449 2 G 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

spring. Later on, they will have withered and faded, and 
the corn will have been gathered, and the deep green of the 
eastern foliage will have assumed a kind of grey-bleached 
tint. 

Even now, in May, the hot sparkle of the everlasting sea, 
the terribly clear outline of all objects, whether near or 
distant, the fierce sun right overhead, the dazzling air 
around, were inexpressibly wearying to the English eyes that 
kept their skilled watch, day and night, on the strongly- 
fortified coast-town that lay out a little to the northward of 
where the British ships were anchored. 

They had kept up a flanking-fire for many days in aid of 
those besieged in St. Jean d’Acre ; and at intervals had 
listened, impatient, to the sound of the heavy siege guns, or 
the sharper rattle of the French musketry. 

In the morning, on the 7th of May, a man at the mast- 
head of the Tigre sang out that he saw ships in the ofi&ng ; 
and, in reply to the signal that was hastily run up, he saw 
the distant vessel hoist friendly flags. That May morning 
was a busy time. The besieged Turks took heart of grace ; 
the French outside, under the command of their great 
general, made hasty preparations for a more vigorous assault 
than all the many, both vigorous and bloody, that had gone 
before (for the siege was now at its fifty-first day), in hopes 
of carrying the town by storm before the reinforcement 
coming by sea could arrive ; and Sir Sidney Smith, aware of 
Buonaparte’s desperate intention, ordered all the men, both 
sailors and marines, that could be spared from the necessity 
of keeping up a continual flanking-fire from the ships upon 
the French, to land and assist the Turks, and the British 
forces already there in the defence of the old historic city. 

Lieutenant Kinraid, who had shared his captain’s daring 
adventure off the coast of France three years before, who 
had been a prisoner, with him and Westley Wright, in the 
Temple at Paris, and had escaped with them, and, through 
Sir Sidney’s earnest recommendation, been promoted from 
being a warrant-officer to the rank of lieutenant, received on 

450 


The Recognition 

this day the honour from his admiral of being appointed to 
an especial post of danger. His heart was like a war-horse, 
and said, Ha, ha ! as the boat bounded over the waves that 
were to land him under the ancient machicolated walls, where 
the Crusaders made their last stand in the Holy Land. Not 
that Kinraid knew or cared one jot about those gallant 
knights of old : all he knew was that the French, under 
Boney, were trying to take the town from the Turks, and 
that his admiral said they must not, and so they should not. 

He and his men landed on that sandy shore, and entered 
the town by the water-port gate ; he was singing to himself 
his own country song — 

“ Weel may the keel row, the keel row,” &c.; 

and his men, with sailors’ aptitude for music, caught up the 
air, and joined in the burden with inarticulate sounds. 

So, with merry hearts, they threaded the narrow streets 
of Acre, hemmed in on either side by the white walls of 
Turkish houses, with small grated openings high up, above 
all chance of peeping intrusion. 

Here and there they met an ample-robed and turbaned 
Turk, going along with as much haste as his stately self- 
possession would allow. But the majority of the male in- 
habitants were gathered together to defend the breach, where 
the French guns thundered out far above the heads of the 
sailors. 

They went along, none the less merrily for the sound, 
to Djezzar Pacha’s garden, where the old Turk sat on his 
carpet, beneath the shade of a great terebinth tree, listening 
to the interpreter, who made known to him the meaning of 
the eager speeches of Sir Sidney Smith and the colonel of 
the marines. 

As soon as the admiral saw the gallant sailors of H.M.S. 
Tigre^ he interrupted the council of war without much cere- 
mony ; and, going to Kinraid, he despatched them, as before 
arranged, to the North Eavelin, showing them the way with 
rapid, clear directions. 


451 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Out of respect to him, they had kept silent while in the 
strange, desolate garden ; but, once more in the streets, the 
old Newcastle song rose up again, till the men were, perforce, 
silenced by the haste with which they went to the post of 
danger. 

It was three o’clock in the afternoon. For many a day, 
these very men had been swearing at the terrific heat at this 
hour — even when at sea, fanned by the soft breeze ; but now, 
in the midst of hot smoke, with former carnage tainting the 
air, and with the rush and whizz of death perpetually whist- 
ling in their ears, they were uncomplaining and light-hearted. 
Many an old joke, and some new ones, came brave and 
hearty on their cheerful voices, even though the speaker was 
veiled from sight in great clouds of smoke, cloven only by 
the bright flames of death. 

A sudden message came : as many of the crew of the 
Tigre as were under Lieutenant Kinraid’s command were to 
go down to the Mole, to assist the new reinforcements (seen 
by the sailor from the masthead at day-dawn) under com- 
mand of Hassan Bey to land at the Mole, where Sir Sidney 
then was. 

Off they went, almost as bright and thoughtless as before, 
though two of their number lay silent for ever at the North 
Eavelin — silenced in that one little half-hour. And one went 
along with the rest, swearing lustily at his ill-luck in having his 
right arm broken, but ready to do good business with his left. 

They helped the Turkish troops to land with more good- 
will than tenderness ; and then, led by Sir Sidney, they went 
under the shelter of English guns to the fatal breach, so often 
assailed, so gallantly defended, but never so fiercely contested 
as on this burning afternoon. The ruins of the massive 
wall, that here had been broken down by the French, were 
used by them as stepping-stones to get on a level with the 
besieged, and so to escape the heavy stones which the latter 
hurled down ; nay, even the dead bodies of the morning’s 
comrades were made into ghastly stairs. 

When Djezzar Pacha heard that the British sailors were 

452 


The Recognition 

defending the breach, headed by Sir Sidney Smith, he left his 
station in the palace-garden, gathered up his rohes in haste, 
and hurried to the breach ; where, with his own hands, and 
with right hearty good-will, he pulled the sailors down from 
the post of danger, saying that, if he lost his English friends, 
he lost all ! 

But little recked the crew of the Tigre of the one old man 
— Pacha or otherwise — who tried to hold them back from the 
fight ; they were up and at the French assailants clambering 
over the breach, in an instant ; and so they went on, as if it 
were some game of play instead of a deadly combat, until 
Kinraid and his men were called off by Sir Sidney, as the 
reinforcement of Turkish troops under Hassan Bey were now 
sufficient for the defence of that old breach in the walls, 
which was no longer the principal object of the French 
attack ; for the besiegers had made a new and more formid- 
able breach by their incessant fire, knocking down whole 
streets of the city walls. 

“ Fight your best, Kinraid ! ” said Sir Sidney ; “for 
there’s Boney on yonder hill looking at you.” 

And sure enough, on a rising ground, called Eichard 
Coeur de Lion’s Mount, there was a half-circle of French 
generals, on horseback, all deferentially attending to the 
motions, and apparently to the words, of a little man in their 
centre ; at whose bidding the aide-de-camp galloped swift 
with messages to the more distant French camp. 

The two ravelins which Kinraid and his men had to 
occupy, for the purpose of sending a flanking fire upon the 
enemy, were not ten yards from that enemy’s van. 

But at length there was a sudden rush of the French to 
that part of the wall where they imagined they could enter 
unopposed. 

Surprised at this movement, Kinraid ventured out of the 
shelter of the ravelin to ascertain the cause ; he, safe and 
untouched during that long afternoon of carnage, fell now, 
under a stray musket-shot, and lay helpless and exposed 
upon the ground, undiscerned by his men, who were recalled 

453 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

to help in the hot reception which had been planned for the 
French; who, descending the city walls into the Pacha's 
garden, were attacked with sabre and dagger, and, lay head- 
less corpses, under the flowering rose-bushes and by the 
fountain-side. 

Kinraid lay beyond the ravelins, many yards outside the 
city walls. 

He was utterly helpless, for the shot had broken his leg. 
Dead bodies of Frenchmen lay strewn around him ; no 
Englishman had ventured out so far. 

All the wounded men that he could see were French; 
and many of these, furious with pain, gnashed their teeth at 
him, and cursed him aloud, till he thought that his best 
course was to assume the semblance of death ; for some 
among these men were still capable of dragging themselves 
up to him, and, by concentrating all their failing energies 
into one blow, putting him to a speedy end. 

The outlying pickets of the French army were within 
easy rifle shot ; and his uniform, although less conspicuous 
in colour than that of the marines, by whose side he had 
been fighting, would make him a sure mark if he so much as 
moved his arm. Yet how he longed to turn, if ever so slightly, 
so that the cruel slanting sun might not beat full into his 
aching eyes ! Fever, too, was coming upon him ; the pain in 
his leg was every moment growing more severe ; the terrible 
thirst of the wounded, added to the heat and fatigue of the 
day, made his lips and tongue feel baked and dry, and his 
whole throat seemed parched and wooden. Thoughts of 
other days, of cool Greenland seas, where ice abounded, 
of grassy English homes, began to make the past more real 
than the present. 

With a great effort, he brought his wandering senses 
back; he knew where he was now, and could weigh the 
chances of his life, which were but small ; the unwonted 
tears came to his eyes as he thought of the newly-made wife 
in her English home, who might never know how he died 
thinking of her. 


454 


The Recognition 

Suddenly, he saw a party of English marines advance, 
under shelter of the ravelin, to pick up the wounded, and 
bear them within the walls for surgical help. They were so 
near he could see their faces, could hear them speak ; yet he 
durst not make any sign to them, when he lay within range 
of the French pickets’ fire. 

For one moment he could not resist raising his head, to 
give himself a chance of life ; before the unclean creatures 
that infest a camp came round in the darkness of the night 
to strip and insult the dead bodies, and to put to death such 
as had yet the breath of fife within them. But the setting 
sun came full into his face, and he saw nothing of what he 
longed to see. 

He fell back in despair ; he lay there to die. 

That strong, clear sunbeam had wrought his salvation. 

He had been recognised, as men are recognised when 
they stand in the red glare of a house on fire; the same 
despair of help, of hopeless farewell to life, stamped on their 
faces in blood-red light. 

One man left his fellows, and came running forwards, for- 
wards, in among the enemy’s wounded, within range of their 
guns ; he bent down over Kinraid ; he seemed to understand 
without a word ; he lifted him up, carrying him like a child ; 
and, with the vehement energy that is more from the force of 
will than the strength of body, he bore him back to within 
the shelter of the ravelin — not without many shots being 
aimed at them, one of which hit Kinraid in the fleshy part 
of his arm. 

Kinraid was racked with agony from his dangling broken 
leg, and his very life seemed leaving him ; yet he remembered 
afterwards how the marine recalled his fellows, and how, in 
the pause before they returned, his face became like one 
formerly known to the sick senses of Kinraid ; yet it was too 
like a dream, too utterly improbable to be real. 

Yet the few words this man said, as he stood breathless and 
alone by the fainting Kinraid, fitted in well with the belief 
conjured up by his personal appearance. He panted out — 

455 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ I niver thought you’d ha’ kept true to her ! ” 

And then the others came up; and while they were 
making a sling of their belts, Kinraid fainted utterly away, 
and the next time that he was fully conscious, he was lying 
in his berth in the Tigre, with the ship-surgeon setting his 
leg. After that he was too feverish for several days to 
collect his senses. When he could first remember, and 
form a judgment upon his recollections, he called the man 
especially charged to attend upon him, and bade him go and 
make inquiry in every possible manner for a marine named 
Philip Hepburn, and, when he was found, to entreat him to 
come and see Kinraid. 

The sailor was away the greater part of the day, and 
returned unsuccessful in his search ; he had been from ship 
to ship, hither and thither ; he had questioned all the 
marines he had met with : no one knew anything of any 
Philip Hepburn. 

Kinraid passed a miserably feverish night ; and, when 
the doctor exclaimed the next morning at his retrogression, 
he told him, with some irritation, of the ill-success of his 
servant ; he accused the man of stupidity, and wished 
fervently that he were able to go himself. 

Partly to soothe him, the doctor promised that he would 
undertake the search for Hepburn, and he engaged faithfully 
to follow all Kinraid’s eager directions ; not to be satisfied 
with men’s careless words, but to look over muster-rolls and 
ships’ books. 

He, too, brought the same answer, however unwilhngly 
given. 

He had set out upon the search so confident of success, 
that he felt doubly discomfited by failure. However, he 
had persuaded himself that the lieutenant had been partially 
delirious from the effects of his wound and the power of the 
sun, shining down just where he lay. There had, indeed, 
been slight symptoms of Kinraid’s having received a sun- 
stroke ; and the doctor dwelt largely on these, in his en- 
deavour to persuade his patient that it was his imagination 

456 


The Recognition 

which had endued a stranger with the lineaments of some 
former friend. 

Kinraid threw his arms out of bed with impatience at all 
this plausible talk, which was even more irritating than the 
fact that Hepburn was still undiscovered. 

“ The man was no friend of mine ; I was like to have 
killed him when last I saw him. He was a shopkeeper in 
a country town in England. I had seen little enough of 
him ; but enough to make me able to swear to him anywhere, 
even in a marine’s uniform, and in this sweltering country.” 

“ Faces once seen, especially in excitement, are apt to 
return upon the memory in cases of fever,” quoth the doctor 
sententiously. 

The attendant sailor, reinstalled to some complacency by 
the failure of another in the search in which he himself had 
been unsuccessful, now put in his explanation. 

“ Maybe it was a spirit. It’s not th’ first time as I’ve 
beared of a spirit coming upon earth to save a man’s life 
i’ time o’ need. My father had an uncle, a west -country 
grazier. He was a-coming over Dartmoor in Devonshire 
one moonlight night, with a power o’ money as he’d got for 
his sheep at t’ fair. It were stowed i’ leather bags under 
th’ seat o’ th’ gig. It were a rough kind o’ road, both as a 
road and in character, for there’d been many robberies there 
of late, and th’ great rocks stood convenient for hiding- 
places. All at once, father’s uncle feels as if some one were 
sitting beside him on th’ empty seat ; and he turns his head 
and looks, and there he sees his brother sitting — his brother 
as had been dead twelve year and more. So he turns his 
head back again, eyes right, and never says a word, but 
wonders what it all means. All of a sudden, two fellows 
come out upo’ th’ white road from some black shadow, and 
they looked, and they let th’ gig go past, father’s uncle 
driving hard. I’ll warrant him. But for all that he heard 

one say to t’ other, ‘ By , there’s two on’ em ! ’ Straight on 

he drove faster than ever, till he saw th’ far lights of some 
town or other. I forget its name, though I’ve beared it many 

457 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

a time ; and then he drew a long breath, and turned his head 
to look at his brother, and ask him how he’d managed to 
come out of his grave i’ Barum churchyard ; and th’ seat was as 
empty as it had been when he set out ; and then he knew that 
it were a spirit come to help him against th’ men who thought 
to rob him, and would likely enough ha’ murdered him.” 

Kinraid had kept quiet through this story. But when 
the sailor began to draw the moral, and to say, “ And I 
think I may make bold to say, sir, as th’ marine who carried 
you out o’ th’ Frenchy’s gun-shot was just a spirit come to 
help you,” he exclaimed impatiently, swearing a great oath 
as he did so. “ It was no spirit, I tell you ; and I was in 
my full senses. It was a man named Philip Hepburn. He 
said words to me, or over me, as none but himself would 
have said. Yet we hated each other like poison ; and I can’t 
make out why he should be there, and putting himself in 
danger to save me. But so it was ; and, as you can’t find 
him, let me hear no more of your nonsense. It was him, 
and not my fancy, doctor. It was fiesh and blood, and not 
a spirit. Jack. So get along with you, and leave me quiet ! ” 
All this time, Stephen Freeman lay friendless, sick, and 
shattered, on board the Theseus. 

He had been about his duty close to some shells that were 
placed on her deck ; a gay young midshipman was thought- 
lessly striving to get the fusee out of one of these by a mallet 
and spike -nail that lay close at hand ; and a fearful explosion 
ensued, in which the poor marine, cleaning his bayonet near, 
was shockingly burnt and disfigured, the very skin of all the 
lower part of his face being utterly destroyed by gunpowder. 
They said it was a mercy that his eyes were spared ; but he 
could hardly feel anything to be a mercy, as he lay tossing in 
agony, burnt by the explosion, wounded by splinters, and 
feeling that he was disabled for life, if life itself were preserved. 
Of all that suffered by that fearful accident (and they were 
many) none was so forsaken, so hopeless, so desolate, as the 
Philip Hepburn about whom such anxious inquhies were being 
made at that very time. 


458 


Confidences 


CHAPTBE XXXIX 

CONFIDENCES 

It was a little later on, in that same summer, that Mrs. 
Brunton came to visit her sister Bessy. 

Bessy was married to a tolerably well-to-do farmer, who 
lived at an almost equal distance between Monkshaven and 
Hartswell ; but, from old habit and convenience, the latter was 
regarded as the Dawsons’ market-town ; so Bessy seldom or 
never saw her old friends in Monkshaven. 

But Mrs. Brunton was far too flourishing a person not to 
speak out her wishes, and have her own way. She had no 
notion, she said, of coming such a long journey only to see 
Bessy and her husband, and not to have a sight of her former 
acquaintances at Monkshaven. She might have added, that 
her new bonnet and cloak would be as good as lost if it was 
not displayed among those who, knowing her as Molly Corney, 
and being less fortunate in matrimony than she was, would 
look upon it with wondering admiration, if not with envy. 

So, one day. Farmer Dawson’s market cart deposited Mrs. 
Brunton in all her bravery at the shop in the market-place, 
over which Hepburn and Ooulson’s names still flourished in 
joint partnership. 

After a few words of brisk recognition to Coulson and 
Hester, Mrs. Brunton passed on into the parlour and greeted 
Sylvia with boisterous heartiness. 

It was now four years and more since the friends had met ; 
and each secretly wondered how they had ever come to be 
friends. Sylvia had a country, raw, spiritless look to Mrs. 
Brunton’s eye ; Molly was loud and talkative, and altogether 
distasteful to Sylvia, trained in daily companionship with 
Hester to appreciate soft slow speech and grave thoughtful 
ways. 

However, they kept up the forms of their old friendship, 
459 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

though their hearts had drifted far apart. They sat hand in 
hand, while each looked at the other with eyes inquisitive as 
to the changes which time had made. Molly was the first to 
speak. 

“ Well, to he sure ! how thin and pale yo’ve grown, Sylvia ! 
Matrimony hasn’t agreed wi’ yo’ as well as it’s done wi’ me. 
Brunton is allays saying (yo’ know what a man he is for his 
joke) that, if he’d ha’ known how many yards o’ silk I should 
ha’ ta’en for a gown, he’d ha’ thought twice afore he’d ha’ 
married me. Why, I’ve gained a matter o’ thirty pound o’ 
flesh sin’ I were married ! ” 

“ Yo’ do look hrave and hearty ! ” said Sylvia, putting her 
sense of her companion’s capacious size and high colour into 
the prettiest words she could. 

“ Eh ! Sylvia ! but I know what it is,” said Molly, shaking 
her head. “ It’s just because o’ that husband o’ thine as has 
gone and left thee ; thou’s pining after him, and he’s not 
worth it. Brunton said, when he beared on it — I mind he 
was smoking at t’ time, and he took his pipe out of his mouth, 
and shook out t’ ashes as grave as any judge — ‘ The man ’, 
says he, ‘ as can desert a wife like Sylvia Eobson as was, 
deserves hanging ! ’ That’s what he says ! Eh ! Sylvia, but, 
speakin’ o’ hanging, I was so grieved for yo’ when I beared 
of yo’r poor feyther ! Such an end for a decent man to come 
to 1 Many a one come an’ called on me o’ purpose to hear 
all I could tell ’em about him ! ” 

“ Please don’t speak on it ! ” said Sylvia, trembling all over. 

“ Well, poor creature, I wunnot. It is hard on thee, I 
grant. But to give t’ devil his due, it were good i’ Hepburn 
to marry thee, and so soon after there was a’ that talk about 
thy feyther. Many a man would ha’ drawn back, choose 
howiver far they’d gone. I’m noane so sure about Charley 
Kinraid. Eh, Sylvia ! only think on his being alive after all ! 
I doubt if our Bessy would ha’ wed Frank Dawson, if she’d 
known as he wasn’t drowned. But it’s as well she did, for 
Dawson’s a man o’ property, and has getten twelve cows in 
his cow-house, beside three right-down good horses ; and 

460 


Confidences 

Kinraid were allays a fellow wi’ two strings to his bow. I’ve 
allays said and do maintain, that he went on pretty strong 
wi’ yo’, Sylvie ; and I will say I think he cared more for yo’ 
than for our Bessy, though it were only yesterday at e’en she 
were standing out that he liked her better than yo’. Yo’ll 
ha’ beared on his grand marriage ? ” 

“ No ! ” said Sylvia, with eager, painful curiosity. 

“ No ? It was in all t’ papers ! I wonder as yo’ didn’t 
see it. Wait a minute ! I cut it out o’ the Gentleman's 
Magazine, as Brunton bought o’ purpose, and put it i’ my 
pocket-book when I were a-coming here ; I know I’ve got it 
somewheere.” 

She took out her smart crimson pocket-book, and rum- 
maged in the pocket until she produced a little crumpled bit 
of printed paper, from which she read aloud — 

“ On January the 3rd, at St. Mary Eedcliffe, Bristol, 
Charles Kinraid, Esq., lieutenant Eoyal Navy, to Miss 
Clarinda Jackson, with a fortune of £10,000.” 

“ Theere ! ” said she triumphantly, “ it’s something, as 
Brunton says, to be cousin to that.” 

“ Would yo’ let me see it ? ” said Sylvia timidly. 

Mrs. Brunton graciously consented ; and Sylvia brought 
her newly- acquired reading-knowledge, hitherto principally 
exercised on the Old Testament, to bear on these words. 

There was nothing wonderful in them, nothing that she 
might not have expected ; and yet the surprise turned her 
giddy for a moment or two. She never thought of seeing 
him again, never. But to think of his caring for another 
woman as much as he had done for her — nay, perhaps more ! 

The idea was irresistibly forced upon her that Philip would 
not have acted so ; it would have taken long years before he 
could have been induced to put another on the throne she had 
once occupied. For the first time in her life, she seemed to 
recognise the real nature of Philip’s love. 

But she said nothing but “ Thank yo’,” when she gave 
the scrap of paper back to Molly Brunton. And the latter 
continued giving her information about Kinraid s marriage. 

461 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ He were down in t’ west, Plymouth or somewheere, 
when he met wi’ her. She’s no feyther ; he’d been in t’ 
sugar-baking business ; but from what Kinraid wrote to old 
Turner, th’ uncle as brought him up at Cullercoats, she’s had 
t’ best of edications : can play on t’ instrument and dance t’ 
shawl dance ; and Kinraid had all her money settled on her, 
though she said she’d rayther give it all to him, which I must 
say, being his cousin, was very pretty on her. He’s left her 
now, having to go off in t’ Tigre, as is his ship, to t’ Mediter- 
ranean seas ; and she’s written to offer to come and see old 
Turner, and make friends with his relations, and Brunton is 
going to gi’e me a crimson satin, as soon as we know for 
certain when she’s coming, for we’re sure to be asked out to 
Cullercoats.” 

“ I wonder if she’s very pretty ? ” asked Sylvia faintly, in 
the first pause of this torrent of talk. 

“ Oh ! she’s a perfect beauty, as I understand. There 
was a traveller as come to our shop as had been at York, and 
knew some of her cousins theere, that were in t’ grocery line 
— her mother was a York lady — and they said she was just 
a picture of a woman, and iver so many gentlemen had been 
wantin’ to marry her ; but she just waited for Charley Kinraid, 
yo’ see ! ” 

“ Well, I hope they’ll be happy ; I’m sure I do ! ” said 
Sylvia. 

“ That’s just luck. Some folks is happy i’ marriage, and 
some isn’t. It’s just luck, and there’s no forecasting it. 
Men is such unaccountable animals, there’s no prophesyin’ 
upon ’em. Who’d ha’ thought of yo’r husband, him as was 
so slow and sure — steady Philip, as we lasses used to ca’ 
him — makin’ a moonlight flittin’, and leavin’ yo’ to be a 
widow bewitched? ” 

“ He didn’t go at night,” said Sylvia, taking the words 
“ moonlight flitting ” in their literal sense. 

“ No ! Well, I only said ‘ moonlight flittin’ ’, just be- 
cause it come uppermost and I knowed no better. Tell 
me all about it, Sylvie, for I can’t mak’ it out from what 

462 


Confidences 

Bessy says. Had he and yo’ had words ? — but in course 
yo’ had.” 

At this moment Hester came into the room ; and Sylvia 
joyfully availed herself of the pretext for breaking off the con- 
versation that had reached this painful and awkward point. 
She detained Hester in the room, for fear lest Mrs. Brunton 
should repeat her inquiry as to how it all happened that 
Philip had gone away ; but the presence of a third person 
seemed as though it would be but little restraint upon the 
inquisitive Molly, who repeatedly bore down upon the same 
questions till she nearly drove Sylvia distracted, between her 
astonishment at the news of Kinraid’s marriage ; her wish to 
be alone and quiet, so as to realise the full meaning of that 
piece of intelligence ; her desire to retain Hester in the con- 
versation ; her efforts to prevent Molly’s recurrence to the 
circumstances of Philip’s disappearance ; and the longing — 
more vehement every minute — for her visitor to go away and 
leave her in peace. She became so disturbed with all these 
thoughts and feelings that she hardly knew what she was 
saying, and assented or dissented to speeches without there 
being either any reason or truth in her words. 

Mrs. Brunton had arranged to remain with Sylvia while 
the horse rested, and had no compunction about the length 
of her visit. She expected to be asked to tea, as Sylvia 
found out at last ; and this she felt would be the worst of all, 
as Alice Eose was not one to tolerate the coarse, careless talk 
of such a woman as Mrs. Brunton, without uplifting her voice 
in many a testimony against it. Sylvia sate holding Hester s 
gown tight, in order to prevent her leaving the room, and 
trying to arrange her little plans so that too much discord- 
ance should not arise to the surface. Just then the door 
opened, and little Bella came in from the kitchen in all the 
pretty, sturdy dignity of two years old, Alice following her, 
with careful steps and protecting, outstretched arms, a slow 
smile softening the sternness of her grave face ; for the child 
was the unconscious darling of the household, and all eyes 
softened into love as they looked on her. She made straight 

463 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

for her mother, with something grasped in her little dimpled 
fist ; but, half-way across the room, she seemed to have become 
suddenly aware of the presence of a stranger, and she stopped 
short, fixing her serious eyes full on Mrs. Brunton, as if to 
take in her appearance — nay, as if to penetrate down into her 
very real self ; and then, stretching out her disengaged hand, 
the baby spoke out the words that had been hovering about 
her mother’s lips for an hour past. 

“ Do away ! ” said Bella decisively. 

“ What a perfect love ! ” said Mrs. Brunton, half in real 
admiration, half in patronage. As she spoke, she got up and 
went towards the child, as if to take her up. 

“ Do away ! do away ! ” cried Bella, in shrill affright at 
this movement. 

“ Dunnot,” said Sylvia ; “ she’s shy ; she doesn’t know 
strangers.” 

But Mrs. Brunton had grasped the struggling, kicking 
child by this time, and her reward for this was a vehement 
little slap in the face. 

“ Yo’ naughty little spoilt thing ! ” said she, setting Bella 
down in a hurry. “ Yo’ deserve a good whipping, yo’ do ; 
and, if yo’ were mine, yo’ should have it.” 

Sylvia had no need to stand up for the baby who had run 
to her arms, and was soothing herself with sobbing on her 
mother’s breast ; for Alice took up the defence. 

“ The child said, as plain as words could say, ‘ Go away ’ ; 
and, if thou wouldst follow thine own will instead of heeding 
her wish, thou mun put up with the wilfulness of the old 
Adam, of which it seems to me thee hast getten thy share at 
thirty as well as little Bella at two.” 

“ Thirty ! ” said Mrs. Brunton, now fairly affronted. 
“ Thirty I why, Sylvia, yo’ know I’m but two years older 
than yo’ ; speak to that woman, an’ tell her as I’m only four 
and twenty. Thirty, indeed ! ” 

“ Molly’s but four and twenty,” said Sylvia, in a pacifica- 
tory tone. 

“ Whether she be twenty, or thirty, or forty, is alike to 

464 


Confidences 

me,” said Alice. “ I meant no harm. I meant but for t’ 
say as her angry words to the child bespoke her to be one 
of the foolish. I know not who she is, nor what her age 
may be.” 

“ She’s an old friend of mine,” said Sylvia. “ She’s Mrs. 
Brunton now; but when I knowed her she was Molly 
Corney.” 

“ Ah ! and yo’ were Sylvia Eobson, and as bonny and 
light-hearted a lass as any in a’ t’ Biding ; though now yo’re 
a poor widow bewitched, left wi’ a child as I mustn’t speak 
a word about, an’ living wi’ folk as talk about ‘ t’ old Adam ’, as 
if he wasn’t dead and done wi’ long ago! It’s a change, 
Sylvia, as makes my heart ache for yo’, to think on them old 
days, when yo’ were so thought on yo’ might have had any 
man, as Brunton often says ; it were a great mistake as yo’ 
iver took up wi’ yon man as has run away. But seven year 
’ll soon be past fro’ t’ time he went off, and yo’ll only be 
six-and-twenty then ; and there’ll be a chance of a better 
husband for yo’ after all, so keep up yo’r heart, Sylvia.” 

Molly Brunton had put as much venom as she knew how 
into this speech, meaning it as a vengeful payment for the 
supposition of her being thirty, even more than for the reproof 
for her angry words about the child. She thought that Alice 
Bose must be either mother or aunt to Philip, from the serious 
cast of countenance that was remarkable in both ; and she 
rather exulted in the allusion to a happier second marriage 
for Sylvia with which she had concluded her speech. It 
roused Alice, however, as effectually as if she had been 
really a blood relation to Philip ; but for a different reason. 
She was not slow to detect the intentional offensiveness to 
herself in what had been said ; she was indignant at Sylvia 
for suffering the words spoken to pass unanswered ; but, in 
truth, they were too much in keeping with Molly Brunton’s 
character to make as much impression on Sylvia as they 
did on a stranger ; and, besides, she felt as if the less reply 
Molly received, the less likely would it be that she would 
go on in the same strain. So she coaxed and chattered 

465 2 H 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

to her child, and behaved, like a little coward in trying to 
draw out of the conversation, while at the same time listen- 
ing attentively. 

“ As for Sylvia Hepburn as was Sylvia Eobson, she knows 
my mind,” said Alice, in grim indignation. “ She’s humbling 
herself now, I trust and pray ; but she was light-minded and 
full of vanity when Philip married her, and it might ha’ been 
a lift towards her salvation in one way ; but it pleased the 
Lord to work in a different way, and she mun wear her sack- 
cloth and ashes in patience. So I’ll say naught more about 
her. But for him as is absent, as thee hast spoken on so 
lightly and reproachfully, I’d have thee to know he were one 
of a different kind to any thee ever knew, I reckon. If he 
were led a\yay by a pretty face to slight one as was fitter for 
him, and who had loved him as the apple of her eye, it’s him 
as is suffering for it, inasmuch as he’s a wanderer from his 
home, and an outcast from wife and child.” 

To the surprise of all, Molly’s words of reply were cut 
short even when they were on her lips, by Sylvia. Pale, 
fire-eyed, and excited, with Philip’s child on one arm, and 
the other stretched out, she said — 

“ Noane can tell — noane know. No one shall speak a 
judgment ’twixt Philip and me. He acted cruel and wrong 
by me. But I’ve said my words to him hissel’, and I’m 
noane going to make any plaint to others ; only them as 
knows should judge. And it’s not fitting, it’s not ” (almost 
sobbing), “ to go on wi’ talk like this afore me.” 

The two — for Hester, who was aware that her presence 
had only been desired by Sylvia as a check to an unpleasant 
tete-d-tHe conversation, had slipped back to her business as 
soon as her mother came in — the two looked with surprise 
at Sylvia ; her words, her whole manner, belonged to a phase 
of her character which seldom came uppermost, and which 
had not been perceived by either of them before. 

Alice Eose, though astonished, rather approved of Sylvia’s 
speech ; it showed that she had more serious thought and 
feeling on the subject than the old woman had given her 

466 


Confidences 

credit for ; her general silence respecting her husband’s 
disappearance had led Alice to think that she was too 
childish to have received any deep impression from the 
event. Molly Brunton gave vent to her opinion on Sylvia’s 
speech in the following words — 

“ Hoighty-toighty ! That tells tales, lass. If yo’ treated 
steady Philip to many such looks an’ speeches as yo’n given 
us now, it’s easy t’ see why he took hisself off. Why, Sylvia, 
I niver saw it in yo’ when yo’ was a girl : yo’re grown into 
a regular little vixen, theere wheere yo’ stand ! ” 

Indeed, she did look defiant, with the swift colour flushing 
her cheeks to crimson on its return, and the fire in her 
eyes not yet died away. But at Molly’s jesting words she 
sank back into her usual look and manner, only saying 
quietly — 

“ It’s for noane to say whether I’m vixen or not, as doesn’t 
know th’ past things as is buried in my heart. But I cannot 
hold them as my friends as go on talking on either my 
husband or me before my very face. What he was, I know ; 
and what I am, I reckon he knows. And now I’ll go hurry 
tea ; for yo’ll be needing it, Molly ! ” 

The last clause of this speech was meant to make peace ; 
but Molly was in twenty minds as to whether she should 
accept the olive-branch or not. Her temper, however, was 
of that obtuse kind which is not easily rufiled ; her mind, 
stagnant in itself, enjoyed excitement from without ; and her 
appetite was invariably good ; so she stayed, in spite of the 
inevitable tUe-a-tUe with Alice. The latter, however, refused 
to be drawn into conversation again; replying to Mrs. 
Brunton’s speeches with a curt ‘ yes ’ or ‘ no ’, when, indeed, 
she replied at all. 

When all were gathered at tea, Sylvia was quite calm 
again ; rather paler than usual, and very attentive and sub- 
dued in her behaviour to Alice; she would evidently fain 
have been silent ; but, as Molly was her own especial guest, 
that could not be ; so all her endeavours went towards steer- 
ing the conversation away from any awkward points. But 

467 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

each of the four, let alone little Bella, was thankful when 
the market-cart drew up at the shop-door, that was to take 
Mrs. Brunton back to her sister’s house. 

When she was fairly off, Alice Eose opened her mouth in 
strong condemnation ; winding up with — 

“ And if aught in my words gave thee cause for offence, 
Sylvia, it was because my heart rose within me at the kind 
of talk thee and she had been having about Philip ; and her 
evil and light-minded counsel to thee about waiting seven 
years, and then wedding another.” 

Hard as these words may seem when repeated, there was 
something of a nearer approach to an apology in Mrs. Bose’s 
manner than Sylvia had ever seen in it before. She was 
silent for a few moments ; then she said — 

“ I ha’ often thought of telling yo’ and Hester, special- 
like, when yo’ve been so kind to my little Bella, that Philip 
an’ me could niver come together again ; no, not if he came 
home this very night ” — 

She would have gone on speaking, but Hester interrupted 
her with a low cry of dismay. 

Alice said — 

“ Hush thee, Hester. It’s no business o’ thine. Sylvia 
Hepburn, thou’rt speaking like a silly child.” 

“ No. I’m speaking like a woman : like a woman as 
finds out she’s been cheated by men as she trusted, and as 
has no help for it. I’m noane going to say any more about 
it. It’s me as has been wronged, and as has to bear it : only 
I thought I’d tell yo’ both this much, that yo’ might know 
somewhat why he went away, and how I said my last word 
about it.” 

So indeed it seemed. To all questions and remonstrances 
from Alice, Sylvia turned a deaf ear. She averted her face 
from Hester’s sad, wistful looks ; only, when they were 
parting for the night, at the top of the little staircase, she 
turned, and, putting her arms round Hester’s neck, she laid 
her head on it, and whispered — 

“ Poor Hester — poor, poor Hester ! if yo’ an’ he had but 
468 


Confidences 

been married together, what a deal o’ sorrow would ha’ been 
spared to us all ! ” 

Hester pushed her away as she finished these words; 
looked searchingly into her face, her eyes ; and then followed 
Sylvia into her room, where Bella lay sleeping; shut the 
door, and almost knelt down at Sylvia’s feet, clasping her, 
and hiding her face in the folds of the other’s gown. 

“ Sylvia, Sylvia ! ” she murmured, “ some one has told 
you — I thought no one knew — it’s no sin — it’s done away 
with now — indeed it is — it was long ago — before yo’ were 
married ; but I cannot forget. It was a shame, perhaps, to 
have thought on it iver, when he niver thought o’ me ; but I 
niver believed as any one could ha’ found it out. I’m just 
fit to sink into t’ ground, what wi’ my sorrow and my 
shame.” 

Hester was stopped by her own rising sobs, immediately 
she was in Sylvia’s arms. Sylvia was sitting on the ground 
holding her, and soothing her with caresses and broken 
words. 

“ I’m allays saying t’ wrong things, said she. “ It 
seems as if I were all upset to-day ; and indeed I am,” she 
added, alluding to the news of Kinraid’s marriage she had 
yet to think upon. 

“ But it wasn’t yo’, Hester ; it were nothing yo’ iver said, 
or did, or looked, for that matter. It were yo’r mother as let 
it out.” 

“ Oh, mother ! mother ! ” wailed out Hester ; “ I niver 
thought as any one but God would ha’ known that I had 
iver for a day thought on his being more to me than a 
brother.” 

Sylvia made no reply, only went on stroking Hester’s 
smooth brown hair, off which her cap had fallen. Sylvia 
was thinking how strange life was, and how love seemed to 
go all at cross-purposes, and was losing herself in bewilder- 
ment at the mystery of the world ; she was almost startled 
when Hester rose up, and, taking Sylvia’s hands in both of 
hers, and looking solemnly at her, said — 

,469 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ Sylvia, yo’ know what has been my trouble and my 
shame, and I’m sure yo’re sorry for me — for I will humble 
myself to yo’, and own that, for many months before yo’ were 
married, I felt my disappointment like a heavy burden laid 
on me by day and by night ; but now I ask yo’, if yo’ve any 
pity for me for what I went through, or if yo’ve any love for 
me because of yo’r dead mother’s love for me, or because of 
any fellowship or daily-breadliness between us two — put 
the hard thoughts of Philip away from out yo’r heart ; he 
may ha’ done yo’ wrong, anyway yo’ think that he has ; I 
niver knew him aught but kind and good ; but, if he comes 
back from wheriver in the wide world he’s gone to (and 
there’s not a night but I pray God to keep him, and send 
him safe back), yo’ put away the memory of past injury, and 
forgive it all ; and be, what yo’ can be, Sylvia, if yo’ve a mind 
to, just the kind, good wife he ought to have ! ” 

“ I cannot; yo’ know nothing about it, Hester.” 

“ Tell me, then,” pleaded Hester. 

“ No ! ” said Sylvia, after a moment’s hesitation ; “ I’d do 
a deal for yo’, I would, but I daren’t forgive Philip, even if I 
could ; I took a great oath again’ him. Ay, yo’ may look 
shocked at me ; but it’s him as yo’ ought for to be shocked at, 
if yo’ knew all. I said I’d niver forgive him ; I shall keep 
to my word.” 

“ I think I’d better pray for his death, then,” said Hester, 
hopelessly, and almost bitterly, loosing her hold of Sylvia’s 
hands. 

“If it weren’t for baby theere, I could think as it were 
my death as ’ud be best. Them as one thinks t’ most on 
forgets one soonest.” 

It was Kinraid to whom she was alluding ; but Hester 
did not understand her ; and, after standing for a moment in 
silence, she kissed her, and left her for the night. 


470 


An Unexpected Messenger 


CHAPTBE XL 

AN UNEXPECTED MESSENGER 

After this agitation, and these partial confidences, no more 
was said on the subject of Philip for many weeks. They 
avoided even the slightest allusion to him ; and none of them 
knew how seldom or how often he might be present in the 
minds of the others. 

One day, the little Bella was unusually fractious with 
some slight childish indisposition, and Sylvia was obliged to 
have recourse to a never-failing piece of amusement ; namely, 
to take the child into the shop, where the number of new, 
bright-coloured articles were sure to beguile the little girl 
out of her fretfulness. She was walking along the high 
terrace of the counter, kept steady by her mother’s hand, 
when Mr. Dawson’s market-cart once more stopped before 
the door. But it was not Mrs. Brunton who alighted now ; 
it was a very smartly-dressed, very pretty young lady, who 
put one dainty foot before the other with care, as if descend- 
ing from such a primitive vehicle were a new occurrence in 
her life. Then she looked up at the names above the shop- 
door ; and, after ascertaining that this was indeed the place 
she desired to find, she came in blushing. 

“ Is Mrs. Hepburn at home ? ” she asked of Hester, whose 
position in the shop brought her forwards to receive the 
customers, while Sylvia drew Bella out of sight behind some 
great bales of red flannel. 

“ Can I see her ? ” the sweet, south-country voice went 
on, still addressing Hester. Sylvia heard the inquiry, and 
came forward, with a little rustic awkwardness, feeling both 
shy and curious. 

“ Will yo’ please walk this way, ma’am ? ” said she, 
leading her visitor back into her own dominion of the 
parlour, and leaving Bella to Hester’s willing care. 

471 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ You don’t know me ! ” said the pretty young lady, 
joyously. “ But I think you knew my husband. I am Mrs. 
Kinraid ! ” 

A sob of surprise rose to Sylvia’s lips— she choked it 
down, however, and tried to conceal any emotion she might 
feel, in placing a chair for her visitor, and trying to make 
her feel welcome ; although, if the truth must be told, Sylvia 
was wondering all the time why her visitor came, and how 
soon she would go. 

“You knew Captain Kinraid, did you not ? ” said the 
young lady, with innocent inquiry; to which Sylvia’s lips 
formed the answer, “ Yes ; ” but no clear sound issued 
therefrom. 

“ But I know your husband knew the captain ; is he at 
home yet ? Can I speak to him ? I do so want to see him.” 

Sylvia was utterly bewildered ; Mrs. Kinraid, this pretty, 
joyous, prosperous little bird of a woman, Philip, Charley’s 
wife — what could they have in common ? what could they 
know of each other ? All she could say in answer to Mrs. 
Kinraid’s eager questions, and still more eager looks, was, 
that her husband was from home, had been long from home ; 
she did not know where he was ; she did not know when he 
would come back. 

Mrs. Kinraid’s face fell a little, partly from her own real 
disappointment, partly out of sympathy with the hopeless, 
indifferent tone of Sylvia’s replies. 

“ Mrs. Dawson told me he had gone away rather suddenly 
a year ago ; but I thought he might be come home by now. 
I am expecting the captain early next month. Oh ! how I 
should have liked to see Mr. Hepburn, and to thank him for 
saving the captain’s life ! ” 

“ What do yo’ mean ? ” asked Sylvia, stirred out of all 
assumed indifference. “ The captain ! is that ” — not 
“ Charley ; ” she could not use that familiar name to the 
pretty young wife before her — “ yo’r husband ? ” 

“ Yes ; you knew him, didn’t you, when he used to be 
staying with Mr. Corney, his uncle ? ” 

472 


An Unexpected Messenger 

“Yes, I knew him; but I don’t understand. Will yo’ 
please to tell me all about it, ma’am ? ” said Sylvia faintly. 

“ I thought your husband would have told you ^11 about 
it ; I hardly know where to begin. You know my husband 
is a sailor ? ” 

Sylvia nodded assent, listening greedily, her heart beating 
thick all the time. 

“ And he’s now a Commander in the Eoyal Navy, all 
earned by his own bravery ? Oh ! I am so proud of him ! ” 

So could Sylvia have been, if she had been his wife ; as it 
was, she thought how often she had felt sure that he would 
be a great man some day. 

“ And he has been at the siege of Acre.” 

Sylvia looked perplexed at these strange words, and Mrs. 
Kinraid caught the look. 

“ St. Jean d’Acre, you know — though it’s fine saying 
‘ you know,’ when I didn’t know a bit about it myself till 
the captain’s ship was ordered there, though I was the head 
girl at Miss Dobbin’s in the geography-class — Acre is a 
sea-port town, not far from Jaffa, which is the modern name 
for Joppa, where St. Paul went to long ago; you’ve read of 
that, I’m sure, and Mount Carmel, where the prophet Elijah 
was once— all in Palestine, you know, only the Turks have 
got it now ? ” 

“ But I don’t understand yet,” said Sylvia plaintively ; 
“ I daresay it’s all very true about St. Paul ; but please, 
ma’am, will yo’ tell me about yo’r husband and mine — have 
they met again ? ” 

“ Yes, at Acre, I tell you,” said Mrs. Kinraid, with pretty 
petulance. “ The Turks held the town, and the French 
wanted to take it ; and we, that is, the British fleet, wouldn’t 
let them. So Sir Sidney Smith, a commodore and a great 
friend of the captain’s, landed in order to fight the French ; 
and the captain and many of the sailors landed with him ; and 
it was burning hot ; and the poor captain was wounded, 
and lay a-dying of pain and thirst within the enemy’s — that 
is, the French — fire ; so that they were ready to shoot any 

473 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

one of his own side who came near him. They thought 
he was dead himself, you see, as he very nearly was, and 
would have been, too, if your husband had not come out of 
shelter, and taken him up in his arms or on his back (I 
couldn’t make out which), and carried him safe within the 
walls.” 

“ It couldn’t have been Philip,” said Sylvia dubiously. 

“ But it was. The captain says so ; and he’s not a man 
to be mistaken. I thought I’d got his letter with me, and 
I would have read you a part of it ; but I left it at Mrs. 
Dawson’s in my desk ; and I can’t send it to you,” blushing 
as she remembered certain passages in which “ the captain ” 
wrote very much like a lover, “ or else I would. But you 
may be quite sure it was your husband that ventured into 
all that danger to save his old friend’s life, or the captain 
would not have said so.” 

“ But they weren’t — they weren’t — not to call great 
friends.” 

“ I wish I’d got the letter here ; I can’t think how I 
could be so stupid ; I think I can almost remember the very 
words, though — I’ve read them over so often. He says, 
‘ Just as I gave up all hope, I saw one Philip Hepburn, a 
man whom I had known at Monkshaven, and whom I had 
some reason to remember well’ — (I’m sure he says so — 
‘ remember well ’) ; ‘he saw me too, and came at the risk of 
his life to where I lay. I fully expected he would be shot 
down ; and I shut my eyes not to see the end of my last 
chance. The shot rained about him, and I think he was 
hit ; but he took me up, and carried me under cover.’ I’m 
sure he says that, I’ve read it over so often ; and he goes on 
and says how he hunted for Mr. Hepburn all through the 
ships, as soon as ever he could ; but he could hear nothing 
of him, either alive or dead. Don’t go so white, for pity’s 
sake ! ” said she, suddenly startled by Sylvia’s blanching 
colour. “ You see, because he couldn’t find him alive is no 
reason for giving him up as dead — because his name wasn’t 
to be found on any of the ships’ books ; so the captain thinks 

474 


An Unexpected Messenger 

he must have been known by a different name to his real 
one. Only he says he should like to have seen him to have 
thanked him ; and he says he would give a deal to know 
what has become of him ; and, as I was staying two days at 
Mrs. Dawson’s, I told them I must come over to Monks- 
haven, if only for five minutes, just to hear if your good 
husband was come home, and to shake his hands, that 
helped to save my own dear captain.” 

“I don’t think it could have been Philip,” reiterated 
Sylvia. 

“ Why not ? ” asked her visitor ; “ you say you don’t 
know where he is ; why mightn’t he have been there where 
the captain says he was ? ” 

“ But he wasn’t a sailor, nor yet a soldier.” 

“ Oh ! but he was. I think somewhere the captain calls 
him a marine ; that’s neither one nor the other, but a little 
of both. He’ll be coming home some day soon ; and then 
you’ll see ! ” 

Alice Eose came in at this minute, and Mrs. Kinraid 
jumped to the conclusion that she was Sylvia’s mother ; and, 
in her overflowing gratitude and friendliness to all the 
family of him who had “ saved the captain,” she went 
forward, and shook the old woman’s hand in that pleasant, 
confiding way that wins all hearts. 

“ Here’s your daughter, ma’am ! ” said she to the half- 
astonished, half-pleased Alice. “ I’m Mrs. Kinraid, the wife 
of the captain that used to be in these parts ; and I’m come 
to bring her news of her husband, and she don’t half believe 
me, though it’s all to his credit, I’m sure.” 

Alice looked so perplexed that Sylvia felt herself bound 
to explain. 

“ She says he’s either a soldier or a sailor, and a long 
way off at some place named in t’ Bible.” 

“ Philip Hepburn led away to be a soldier,” said she, 
“ who had once been a Quaker ! ” 

“ Yes, and a very brave one too, and one that it would 
do my heart good to look upon,” exclaimed Mrs. Kinraid. 

475 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ He’s been saving my husband’s life in the Holy Land ; 
where Jerusalem is, you know.” 

“ Nay ! ” said Alice, a little scornfully. “ I can forgive 
Sylvia for not being over-keen to credit thy news. Her man 
of peace becoming a man of war; and suffered to enter 
Jerusalem; which is a heavenly and a typical city at this 
time ; while me, as is one of the elect, is obliged to go dwell- 
ing in Monkshaven, just like any other body ! ” 

“Nay, but,” said Mrs. Kinraid gently, seeing she was 
touching on delicate ground, “ I did not say he had gone to 
Jerusalem; but my husband saw him in those parts, and he 
was doing his duty like a brave, good man; ay, and more 
than his duty ; and, you may take my word for it, he’ll be 
at home some day soon ; and all I beg is that you’ll let the 
captain and me know, for I’m sure if we can, we’U both 
come and pay our respects to him. And I’m very glad I’ve 
seen you,” said she, rising to go, and putting out her hand 
to shake that of Sylvia; “ for, besides being Hepburn’s wife,^ 
I’m pretty sure I’ve heard the captain speak of you ; and, if 
ever you come to Bristol, I hope you’ll come and see us on 
Clifton Downs.” 

She went away, leaving Sylvia almost stunned by the 
new ideas presented to her. Phihp a soldier ! Philip in a 
battle, risking his life ! Most strange of all, Charley and 
Philip once more meeting together, not as rivals or as foes, 
but as saviour and saved ! Add to all this the conviction, 
strengthened by every word that happy, loving wife had 
uttered, that Kinraid’s old, passionate love for herself had 
faded away and vanished utterly ; its very, existence appa- 
rently blotted out of his memory. She had tom up her love 
for him by the roots ; but she felt as if she could never forget 
that it had been. 

Hester brought back Bella to her mother. She had not 
liked to intermpt the conversation with the strange lady 
before ; and now she found her mother in an obvious state 
of excitement, Sylvia quieter than usual. 

That was Kinraid’s wife, Hester ! Him that was th’ 

476 


An Unexpected Messenger 

specksioneer as made such a noise about t’ place at the time 
of Darley’s death. He’s now a captain — a navy- captain, 
according to what she says. And she’d fain have us believe 
that Philip is abiding in all manner of Scripture places : 
places as has been long done away with, but the similitude 
whereof is in the heavens, where the elect shall one day see 
them. And she says Philip is there, and a soldier ; and that 
he saved her husband’s life, and is coming home soon. I 
wonder what John and Jeremiah ’ll say to his soldiering, 
then ? It’ll noane be to their taste, I’m thinking.” 

This was all very unintelligible to Hester, and she would 
dearly have liked to question Sylvia ; but Sylvia sate a little 
apart, with Bella on her knee, her cheek resting on her 
child’s golden curls, and her eyes fixed and almost trance- 
like, as if she were seeing things not present. 

So Hester had to be content with asking her mother as 
many elucidatory questions as she could ; and after all did 
not gain a very clear idea of what had really been said by 
Mrs. Kinraid, as her mother was more full of the apparent 
injustice of Philip’s being allowed the privilege of treading 
on holy ground — if, indeed, that holy ground existed on 
this side heaven, which she was inclined to dispute — than 
to confine herself to the repetition of words, or narration 
of facts. 

Suddenly, Sylvia roused herself to a sense of Hester’s 
deep interest and baulked inquiries, and she went over the 
ground rapidly. 

“Yo’r mother says right— she is his wife. And he’s 
away fighting ; and got too near t’ French as was shooting 
and firing all round him ; and just then, according to her 
story, Philip saw him, and went straight into t’ midst o t’ 
shots, and fetched him out o’ danger. That’s what she says, 
and upholds.” 

“ And why should it not be ? ” asked Hester, her cheek 
flushing. 

But Sylvia only shook her head, and said — 

“ I cannot tell. It may be so. But they’d little cause to 

477 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

be friends, and it seems all so strange — Philip a soldier, and 
them meeting theere after all ! ” 

Hester laid the story of Philip’s bravery to her heart — 
she fully believed in it. Sylvia pondered it more deeply 
still ; the causes for her disbelief, or, at any rate, for her 
wonder, were unknown to Hester ! Many a time she sank 
to sleep with the picture of the event narrated by Mrs. 
Kinraid as present to her mind as her imagination or ex- 
perience could make it : first one figure prominent, then 
another. Many a morning she wakened up, her heart beat- 
ing wildly — why, she knew not, till she shuddered at the 
remembrance of the scenes that had passed in her dreams ; 
scenes that might be acted in reality that very day ; for 
Philip might come back, and then ? 

And where was Philip all this time, these many weeks, 
these heavily passing months ? 


CHAPTER XLI 

THE BEDESMAN OP ST. SEPULCHRE 

Philip lay long ill on board the hospital ship. If his heart 
had been light, he might have rallied sooner ; but he was so 
depressed he did not care to live. His shattered jawbone, 
his burnt and blackened face, his many injuries of body, 
were torture to both his physical frame and his sick, weary 
heart. No more chance for him, if indeed there ever had 
been any, of returning gay and gallant, and thus regaining 
his wife s love. This had been his poor, foolish vision in 
the first hour of his enlistment ; and the vain dream had 
recurred more than once in the feverish stage of excitement, 
which the new scenes into which he had been hurried as a 
recruit had called forth. But that was all over now. He 
knew that it was the most unlikely thing in the world to 

478 


The Bedesman of St. Sepulchre 

have come to pass ; and yet those were happy days when 
he could think of it as barely possible. Now all he could 
look forward to was disfigurement, feebleness, and the bare 
pittance that keeps pensioners from absolute want. 

Those around him were kind enough to him in their 
fashion, and attended to his bodily requirements ; but they 
had no notion of listening to any revelations of unhappiness, 
if Philip had been the man to make confidences of that kind. 
As it was, he lay very still in his berth, seldom asking for 
anything, and always saying he was better, when the ship- 
surgeon came round with his daily inquiries. But he did 
not care to rally, and was rather sorry to find that his 
case was considered so interesting in a surgical point of 
view that he was likely to receive a good deal more than 
the average amount of attention. Perhaps it was owing 
to this that he recovered at all. The doctors said it was 
the heat that made him languid, for that his wounds and 
burns were all doing well at last ; and by-and-by they told 
him they had ordered him “ home.” His pulse sank under 
the surgeon’s finger at the mention of the word ; but he did 
not say a word. He was too indifferent to life and the 
world to have a will ; otherwise they might have kept their 
pet patient a little longer where he was. 

Slowly passing from ship to ship, as occasion served, 
resting here and there in garrison-hospitals, Philip at length 
reached Portsmouth, on the evening of a September day in 
1799. The transport-ship in which he was, was loaded with 
wounded and invalided soldiers and sailors ; all who could 
manage it in any way struggled on deck to catch the first 
view of the white coasts of England. One man lifted his 
arm, took off his cap, and feebly waved it aloft, crying, “ Old 
England for ever ! ” in a faint shrill voice, and then burst 
into tears and sobbed aloud. Others tried to pipe up “ Pule 
Britannia ” ; while more sate weak and motionless, looking 
towards the shores that once, not so long ago, they never 
thought to see again. Philip was one of these ; his place a 
little apart from the other men. He was muffled up in a 

479 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

great military cloak that had been given him by one of his 
officers ; he felt the September breeze chill, after his sojourn 
in a warmer climate, and in his shattered state of health. 

As the ship came in sight of Portsmouth harbour, the 
signal flags ran up the ropes ; the beloved Union Jack floated 
triumphantly over all. Return signals were made from the 
harbour; on board, all became bustle and preparation for 
landing ; while on shore there was the evident movement of 
expectation, and men in uniform were seen pressing their 
way to the front, as if to them belonged the right of re- 
ception. They were the men from the barrack-hospital, that 
had been signalled for, come down with ambulance litters 
and other marks of forethought for the sick and wounded, 
who were returning to the country for which they had fought 
and suffered. 

With a dash and a great rocking swing, the vessel came 
up to her appointed place, and was safely moored. Philip 
sat still, almost as if he had no part in the cries of welcome, 
the bustling care, the loud directions that cut the air around 
him, and pierced his nerves through and through. But one 
in authority gave the order ; and Philip, disciplined to obedi- 
ence, rose to find his knapsack and leave the ship. Passive 
as he seemed to be, he had his likings for particular com- 
rades; there was one especially, a man as different from 
Philip as well could be, to whom the latter had always 
attached himself ; a merry fellow from Somersetshire, who 
was almost always cheerful and bright, though Philip had 
overheard the doctors say he would never be the man he was 
before he had that shot through the side. This marine would 
often sit making his fellows laugh, and laughing himself at 
his own good-humoured jokes, till so terrible a fit of cough- 
ing came on that those around him feared he would die in 
the paroxysm. After one of these fits he had gasped out 
some words, which led Philip to question him a little ; and 
it turned out that in the quiet little village of Potterne, far 
inland, nestled beneath the high stretches of Salisbury Plain, 
he had a wife and a child, a little girl, just the same age, even 

480 


The Bedesman of St. Sepulchre 

to a week, as Philip’s own little Bella. It was this that drew 
Philip towards the man ; and this that made Philip wait and 
go ashore along with the poor consumptive marine. 

The litters had moved off towards the hospital ; the 
sergeant in charge had given his words of command to the 
remaining invalids, who tried to obey them to the best of 
their power, falling into something like military order for 
their march ; but soon, very soon, the weakest broke step, 
and lagged behind, and felt as if the rough welcomes and 
rude expressions of sympathy from the crowd around were 
almost too much for them. Philip and his companion were 
about midway, when suddenly a young woman, with a child 
in her arms, forced herself through the people, between the 
soldiers who kept pressing on either side, and threw herself 
on the neck of Philip’s friend. 

“ Oh, Jem ! ” she sobbed, “ I’ve walked all the road from 
Potteme. I’ve never stopped but for food and rest for Nelly ; 
and now I’ve got you once again, I’ve got you once again, 
bless God for it ! ” 

She did not seem to see the deadly change that had come 
over her husband since she parted with him, a ruddy young 
labourer ; she had got him once again, as she phrased it, and 
that was enough for her ; she kissed his face, his hands, his 
very coat ; nor would she be repulsed from walking beside him 
and holding his hand, while her little girl ran along, scared 
by the voices and the strange faces, and clinging to her 
mammy’s gown. 

Jem coughed, poor fellow! he coughed his churchyard 
cough; and Philip bitterly envied him — envied his life, 
envied his approaching death; for was he not wrapped 
round with that woman’s tender love, and is not such love 
stronger than death? Philip had felt as if his own heart 
was grown numb, and as though it had changed to a cold 
heavy stone. But, at the contrast of this man’s lot to his 
own, he felt that he had yet the power of suffering left to 
him. 

The road they had to go was full of people, kept off in 

481 2 l 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

some measure by the guard of soldiers. All sorts of kindly 
speeches, and many a curious question, were addressed to 
the poor invalids as they walked along. Philip’s jaw, and 
the lower part of his face, were bandaged up; his cap was 
slouched down ; he held his cloak about him, and shivered 
within its folds. 

They came to a standstill from some slight obstacle at the 
corner of a street. Down the causeway of this street a naval 
officer with a lady on his arm was walking briskly, with a 
step that told of health and a light heart. He stayed his 
progress though, when he saw the convoy of maimed and 
wounded men ; he said something, of which Philip only 
caught the words, “ same uniform,” “ for his sake,” to the 
young lady, whose cheek blanched a little, but whose eyes 
kindled. Then leaving her for an instant, he pressed forward ; 
he was close to Philip — poor sad Philip, absorbed in his own 
thoughts — so absorbed that he noticed nothing till he heard 
a voice at his ear, having the Northumbrian burr, the New- 
castle inflections which he knew of old, and that were to him 
like the sick memory of a deadly illness ; and then he turned 
his muffled face to the speaker, though he knew well enough 
who it was, and averted his eyes after one sight of the hand- 
some, happy man — the man whose life he had saved once, 
and would save again, at the risk of his own, but whom, for 
all that, he prayed that he might never meet more on earth. 

“ Here, my fine fellow, take this,” forcing a crown piece 
into Philip’s hand. “ I wish it were more ; I’d give you a 
pound if I had it with me.” 

Philip muttered something, and held out the coin to 
Captain Kinraid, of course in vain ; nor was there time to 
urge it back upon the giver ; for the obstacle to their progress 
was suddenly removed, the crowd pressed upon the captain 
and his wife, the procession moved on, and Philip along with 
it, holding the piece in his hand, and longing to throw it far 
away. Indeed, he was on the point of dropping it, hoping 
to do so unperceived, when he bethought him of giving it to 
Jem’s wife, the footsore woman, hmping happily along by 

482 


The Bedesman of St. Sepulchre 

her husband’s side. They thanked him, and spoke in his 
praise more than he could well bear. It was no credit to 
him to give that away which burned his fingers as long as 
he kept it. 

Philip knew that the injuries he had received in the 
explosion on board the Theseus would oblige him to leave the 
service. He also believed that they would entitle him to a 
pension. But he had little interest in his future life ; he was 
without hope, and in a depressed state of health. He re- 
mained for some little time stationary, and then went through 
all the forms of dismissal on account of wounds received in 
service, and was turned out loose upon the world, uncertain 
where to go, indifferent as to what became of him. 

It was fine, warm October weather as he turned his back 
upon the coast, and set off on his walk northwards. Green 
leaves were yet upon the trees ; the hedges were one flush of 
foliage and wild, rough -flavoured fruits of different kinds ; 
the fields were tawny with the uncleared-off stubble, or 
emerald green with the growth of the aftermath. The road- 
side cottage gardens were gay with hollyhocks and Michaelmas 
daisies and marigolds, and the bright panes of the windows 
glittered through a veil of china roses. 

The war was a popular one, and, as a natural consequence, 
soldiers and sailors were heroes everywhere. Philip’s long 
drooping form, his arm hung in a sling, his face scarred and 
blackened, his jaw bound up with a black silk handkerchief : 
these marks of active service were reverenced by the rustic 
cottagers, as though they had been crowns and sceptres. 
Many a hard-handed labourer left his seat by the chimney 
corner, and came to his door to have a look at one who had 
been fighting the French, and pushed forward to have a 
grasp of the stranger’s hand, as he gave back the empty cup 
into the good wife’s keeping ; for the kind, homely women 
were ever ready with milk or home-brewed, to slake the 
feverish traveller’s thirst, when he stopped at their doors and 
asked for a drink of water. 

At the village public-house he had had a welcome of a 

483 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

more interested character ; for the landlord knew full well 
that his circle of customers would be large that night, if it 
was only known that he had within his doors a soldier or a 
sailor who had seen service. The rustic politicians would 
gather round Philip, and smoke and drink, and then question 
and discuss till they were drouthy again ; and in their sturdy, 
obtuse minds they set down the extra glass and the super- 
numerary pipe to the score of patriotism. 

Altogether, human nature turned its sunny side out to 
Philip just now ; and not before he needed the warmth of 
brotherly kindness to cheer his shivering soul. Day after 
day, he drifted northwards, making but the slow progress of 
a feeble man; and yet this short daily walk tired him so 
much that he longed for rest — for the morning to come, when 
he needed not to feel that in the course of an hour or two he 
must be up and away. 

He was toiling on, with this longing at his heart, when he 
saw that he was drawing near a stately city, with a great old 
cathedral in the centre keeping solemn guard. This place 
might be yet two or three miles distant ; he was on a rising 
ground looking down upon it. A labouring man passing by, 
observed his pallid looks and his languid attitude, and told 
him for his comfort, that if he turned down a lane to the left 
a few steps farther on, he would find himself at the Hospital 
of St. Sepulchre, where bread and beer were given to all 
comers, and where he might sit him down and rest awhile 
on the old stone-benches within the shadow of the gateway. 
Obeying these directions, Philip came upon a building which 
dated from the time of Henry the Fifth. Some knight who 
had fought in the French wars of that time, and had survived 
his battles and come home to his old halls, had been stirred 
up by his conscience, or by what was equivalent in those 
days, his confessor, to build and endow a hospital for twelve 
decayed soldiers, and a chapel wherein they were to attend 
the daily masses he ordained to be said till the end of all 
time (which eternity lasted rather more than a century — 
pretty well for an eternity bespoken by a man !) for his soul 

484 


The Bedesman of St. Sepulchre 

and the souls of those whom he had slain. There was a 
large division of the quadrangular building set apart for the 
priest who was to say these masses, and to watch over the 
well-being of the bedesmen. In process of years, the origin 
and primary purpose of the hospital had been forgotten by 
all excepting the local antiquaries ; and the place itself came 
to be regarded as a very pleasant, quaint set of almshouses, 
and the warden’s office (he who should have said or sung 
his daily masses was now called the warden, and read daily 
prayers and preached a sermon on Sundays) as an agreeable 
sinecure. 

Another legacy of old Sir Simon Bray was that of a small 
croft of land, the rent or profits of which were to go towards 
giving to all who asked for it a manchet of bread and a cup 
of good beer. This beer was, so Sir Simon ordained, to be 
made after a certain receipt which he left, in which ground 
ivy took the place of hops. But the receipt, as well as the 
masses, was modernised according to the progress of time. 

Philip stood under a great, broad, stone archway; the 
back-door into the warden’s house was on the right side ; a 
kind of buttery-hatch was placed by the porter’s door on the 
opposite side. After some consideration, Philip knocked at 
the closed shutter, and the signal seemed to be well under- 
stood. He heard a movement within ; the hatch was drawn 
aside, and his bread and beer were handed to him by a 
pleasant-looking old man, who proved himself not at all 
disinclined for conversation. 

“ You may sit down on yonder bench,” said he. “ Nay, 
man ! sit i’ the sun, for it’s a chilly place this ; and then you 
can look through the gate and watch th’ old fellows toddling 
about in th’ quad.” 

Philip sat down, where the warm October sun slanted 
upon him, and looked through the iron railing at the peaceful 
sight. 

A great square of velvet lawn, intersected diagonally with 
broad flag-paved walks, the same kind of walk going all 
round the quadrangle ; low two-storied brick-houses, tinted 

485 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

grey and yellow by age, and in many places almost covered 
with vines, Virginian creepers, and monthly roses ; before 
each house a little plot of garden-ground, bright with flowers, 
and evidently tended with the utmost care ; on the farther 
side the massive chapel; here and there an old or infirm 
man sunning himself, or leisurely doing a bit of gardening, 
or talking to one of his comrades — the place looked as if 
care and want, and even sorrow, were locked out and 
excluded by the ponderous gate through which Philip was 
gazing. 

“ It’s a nice enough place, bean’t it ? ” said the porter, 
interpreting Philip’s looks pretty accurately. “ Leastways, 
for them as likes it. I’ve got a bit weary on it myself ; it’s so 
far from th’ world, as a man may say ; not a decent public 
within a mile and a half, where one can hear a bit o’ news of 
an evening.” 

“ I think I could make myself very content here,” replied 
Phihp. “ That’s to say, if one were easy in one’s mind.” 

“ Ay, ay, my man ! That’s it everywhere. Why, I don’t 
think that I could enjoy myself — not even at th’ White Hart, 
where they give you as good a glass of ale for twopence as 
anywhere i’ th’ four kingdoms — I couldn’t, so to say, flavour 
my ale even there, if my old woman lay a- dying : which is 
a sign as it’s the heart, and not the ale, as makes the 
drink.” 

Just then the warden’s back-door opened, and out came 
the warden himself, dressed in full clerical costume. 

He was going into the neighbouring city, but he stopped 
to speak to Philip, the wounded soldier; and all the more 
readily, because his old faded uniform told the warden’s 
experienced eye that he had belonged to the Marines. 

“ I hope you enjoy the victual provided for you by the 
founder of St. Sepulchre,” said he kindly. “ You look but 
poorly, my good fellow, and as if a slice of good cold meat 
would help your bread down.” 

“ Thank you, sir! ” said Philip. “ I’m not hungry; only 
weary, and glad of a draught of beer.” 

486 


The Bedesman of St. Sepulchre 

“ You’ve been in the Marines, I see. Where have you 
been serving ? ” 

“ I was at the siege of Acre, last May, sir.” 

“ At Acre ! Were you, indeed ? Then, perhaps, you know 
my boy Harry ? He was in the — th.” 

“ It was my company,” said Philip, warming up a little. 
Looking back upon his soldier’s life, it seemed to him to 
have many charms, because it was so full of small daily 
interests. 

“ Then, did you know my son. Lieutenant Pennington ? ” 

“ It was he that gave me this cloak, sir, when they were 
sending me back to England. I had been his servant for a 
short time, before I was wounded by the explosion on board 
the Theseus ; and he said I should feel the cold of the voyage. 
He’s very kind ; and I’ve heard say he promises to be a first- 
rate officer.” 

“ You shall have a slice of roast-beef, whether you want it 
or not,” said the warden, ringing the bell at his own back- 
door. “ I recognise the cloak now— the young scamp ! How 
soon he has made it shabby, though,” he continued, taking 
up a corner where there was an immense tear not too well 
botched up. “ And so you were on board the Theseus at the 
time of the explosion ? Bring some cold meat here for the 
good man — or stay ! Come in with me ; and then you can 
tell Mrs. Pennington and the young ladies all you know about 
Harry — and the siege — and the explosion.” 

So Philip was ushered into the warden’s house, and 
made to eat roast-beef almost against his will ; and he was 
questioned and cross-questioned by three eager ladies, all 
at the same time, as it seemed to him. He had given all 
possible details on the subjects about which they were 
curious, and was beginning to consider how he could best 
make his retreat, when the younger Miss Pennington went 
up to her father — who had all this time stood, with his hat 
on, holding his coat-tails over his arms, with his back to the 
fire. He bent his ear down a very little to hear some whis- 
pered suggestion of his daughter’s, nodded his head, and then 

487 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

went on questioning Philip, with kindly inquisitiveness and 
patronage, as the rich do question the poor. 

“ And where are you going to now ? ” 

Philip did not answer directly. He wondered in his own 
mind where he was going. At length he said — 

“Northwards, I believe. But perhaps I shall never 
reach there.” 

“ Haven’t you friends ? Aren’t you going to them ? ” 

There was again a pause; a cloud came over Philip’s 
countenance. He said — 

“ No ! I’m not going to my friends. I don’t know that 
I’ve got any left.” 

They interpreted his looks and this speech to mean that 
he had either lost his. friends by death, or offended them by 
enlisting. 

The warden went on — 

“ I ask, because we’ve got a cottage vacant in the mead. 
Old Dobson, who was with General Wolfe at the taking of 
Quebec, died a fortnight ago. With such injuries as yours, 
I fear you’ll never be able to work again. But we require 
strict testimonials as to character,” he added, with as pene- 
trating a look as he could summon up at Philip. 

Phihp looked unmoved, either by the offer of the cottage, 
or the allusion to the possibility of his character not being 
satisfactory. He was grateful enough in reality, but too 
heavy at heart to care very much what became of him. 

The warden and his family, who were accustomed to 
consider a settlement at St. Sepulchre’s as the sum of all 
good to a worn-out soldier, were a little annoyed at Philip’s 
cool way of receiving the proposition. The warden went on 
to name the contingent advantages. 

“ Besides the cottage, you would have a load of wood 
for firing on All Saints’, on Christmas, and on Candlemas 
days — a blue gown and suit of clothes to match every 
Michaelmas, and a shilling a day to keep yourself in all 
other things. Your dinner you would have with the other 
men, in hall.” 


488 


The Bedesman of St. Sepulchre 

“ The warden himself goes into hall every day, and sees 
that everything is comfortable, and says grace,” added the 
warden’s lady. 

“I know I seem stupid,” said Philip, almost humbly, 
“ not to be more grateful ; for it’s far beyond what I iver 
expected or thought for again, and it’s a great temptation, 
for I’m just worn out with fatigue. Several times I’ve 
thought I must lie down under a hedge, and just die for 
very weariness. But once I had a wife and a child up in 
the north ’’^ — he stopped. 

“ And are they dead? ” asked one of the young ladies, in 
a soft, sympathising tone. Her eyes met Philip’s, full of 
dumb woe. He tried to speak ; he wanted to explain more 
fully, yet not to reveal the truth. 

“ Well ! ” said the warden, thinking he perceived the real 
state of things ; “ what I propose is this. You shall go into 
old Dobson’s house at once, as a kind of probationary bedes- 
man. I’ll write to Harry, and get your character from him. 
Stephen Freeman I think you said your name was ? Before 
I can receive his reply, you’ll have been able to tell how 
you’d like the kind of life ; and at any rate you’ll have the 
rest you seem to require in the meantime. You see, I take 
Harry’s having given you that cloak as a kind of character,” 
added he, smiling kindly. “ Of course you’ll have to con- 
form to rules just like all the rest — chapel at eight, dinner 
at twelve, lights out at nine ; but I’ll tell you the remainder 
of our regulations, as we walk across the quad to your new 
quarters.” 

And thus Philip, almost in spite of himself, became 
installed in a bedesman’s house at St. Sepulchre. 


489 


Sylvia’s Lovers 


OHAPTEE XLII 

A FABLE AT FAULT 

Philip took possession of the two rooms which had belonged 
to the dead Sergeant Dobson. They were furnished suffi- 
ciently for every comfort by the trustees of the hospital. 
Some little fragments of ornament, some small articles picked 
up in distant countries, a few tattered books, remained in 
the rooms as legacies from their former occupant. 

At first the repose of the life and the place was inex- 
pressibly grateful to Philip. He had always shrunk from 
encountering strangers, and displaying his blackened and 
scarred countenance to them, even where such disfigure- 
ment was most regarded as a mark of honour. In St. 
Sepulchre’s he met none but the same set day after day ; and, 
when he had once told the tale of how it happened and sub- 
mitted to their gaze, it was over for ever, if he so minded. 
The slight employment his garden gave him — there was a 
kitchen-garden behind each house, as well as the flower-plot 
in front — ^and the daily arrangement of his parlour and 
chamber were, at the beginning of his time of occupation, 
as much bodily labour as he could manage. There was 
something stately and utterly removed from all Philip’s pre- 
vious existence in the forms observed at every day’s dinner : 
when the twelve bedesmen met in the large quaint hall, and 
the warden came in, in his college-cap and gown, to say the 
long Latin grace which wound up with something very like 
a prayer for the soul of Sir Simon Bray. It took some time 
to get a reply to ship-letters in those times, when no one 
could exactly say where the fleet might be found. 

And, before Dr. Pennington had received the excellent 
character of Stephen Freeman, which his son gladly sent in 
answer to his father’s inquiries, Philip had become restless 
and uneasy in the midst of all this peace and comfort. 

490 


A Fable at Fault 

Sitting alone over his fire in the long winter evenings, 
the scenes of his past life rose before him; his childhood; 
his aunt Eobson’s care of him ; his first going to Foster’s 
shop in Monkshaven ; Haytersbank Farm, and the spelling- 
lessons in the bright warm kitchen there ; Kinraid’s appear- 
ance ; the miserable night of the Corneys’ party ; the farewell 
he had witnessed on Monkshaven sands; the press-gang, 
and all the long consequences of that act of concealment ; 
poor Daniel Eobson’s trial and execution ; his own marriage ; 
his child’s birth. And then he came to that last day at 
Monkshaven ; and he went over and over again the torturing 
details, the looks of contempt and anger, the words of loath- 
ing indignation; till he almost brought himself, out of his 
extreme sympathy with Sylvia, to believe that he was indeed 
the wretch she had considered him to be. 

He forgot his own excuses for having acted as he had 
done ; though these excuses had at one time seemed to him 
to wear the garb of reasons. After long thought and bitter 
memory came some wonder. What was Sylvia doing now ? 
Where was she ? What was his child like — his child as well 
as hers ? And then he remembered the poor footsore wife 
and the little girl she carried in her arms, that was just the 
age of Bella ; he wished he had noticed that child more, that 
a clear vision of it might rise up, when he wanted to picture 
Bella. 

One night, he had gone round this mill-wheel circle of 
ideas till he was weary to the very marrow of his bones. To 
shake off the monotonous impression, he rose to look for a 
book amongst the old tattered volumes, hoping that he might 
find something that would sufficiently lay hold of him to 
change the current of his thoughts. There was an odd 
volume of Peregrine Pickle, a book of sermons, half an army- 
list of 1774, and the Seven Champions of Christendom. Philip 
took up this last, which he had never seen before. In it he 
read how Sir Guy, Earl of Warwick, went to fight the Paynim 
in his own country, and was away for seven long years ; and, 
when he came back, his own wife Phillis, the countess in her 

491 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

castle, did not know the poor travel- worn hermit, who came 
daily to seek his dole of bread at her hands along with many 
beggars and much poor. But at last, when he lay a-dying 
in his cave in the rock, he sent for her by a secret sign 
known but to them twain. And she came with great speed, 
for she knew it was her lord who had sent for her ; and they 
had many sweet and holy words together, before he gave up 
the ghost, his head lying on her bosom. 

The old story, known to most people from their child- 
hood, was all new and fresh to Philip. He did not quite 
beheve in the truth of it, because the fictitious nature of the 
histories of some of the other Champions of Christendom 
was too patent. But he could not help thinking that this 
one might be true ; and that Guy and Phillis might have been 
as real flesh and blood, long, long ago, as he and Sylvia had 
ever been. The old room, the quiet moonlit quadrangle into 
which the cross-barred casement looked, the quaint aspect of 
everything that he had seen for weeks and weeks — all this 
predisposed Philip to dwell upon the story he had just been 
reading as a faithful legend of two lovers whose bones were 
long since dust. He thought that, if he could thus see Sylvia, 
himself unknown, unseen — could live at her gates, so to 
speak, and gaze upon her and his child — some day, too, when 
he lay a-dying, he might send for her, and in soft words of 
mutual forgiveness breathe his hfe away in her arms. Or 

perhaps and so he lost himself, and from thinking passed 

on to dreaming. All night long, Guy and Phillis, Sylvia and 
his child, passed in and out of his visions ; it was impossible 
to make the fragments of his dreams cohere; but the im- 
pression made upon him by them was not the less strong for 
this. He felt as if he were called to Monkshaven, wanted at 
Monkshaven, and to Monkshaven he resolved to go ; although, 
when his reason overtook his feehng, he knew perfectly 
how unwise it was to leave a home of peace and tranquil- 
lity and surrounding friendliness, to go to a place where 
nothing but want and, wretchedness awaited him, unless he 
made himself known; and, if he did, a deeper want, a 

492 


A Fable at Fault 

more woeful wretchedness, would in all probability be his 
portion. 

In the small oblong of looking-glass hung against the 
wall, Philip caught the reflection of his own face, and 
laughed scornfully at the sight. The thin hair lay upon his 
temples in the flakes that betoken long ill-health ; his eyes 
were the same as ever, and they had always been considered 
the best feature in his face ; but they were sunk in their 
orbits, and looked hollow and gloomy. As for the lower part 
of his face, blackened, contracted, drawn away from his 
teeth, the outline entirely changed by the breakage of his 
jaw-bone, he was indeed a fool, if he thought himself fit to go 
forth to win back that love which Sylvia had forsworn. As 
a hermit and a beggar, he must return to Monkshaven, and 
fall perforce into the same position which Guy of Warwick 
had only assumed. But still he should see his Phillis, and 
might feast his sad hopeless eyes from time to time with the 
sight of his child. His small pension of sixpence a day would 
keep him from absolute want of necessaries. 

So that very day he went to the warden, and told him he 
thought of giving up his share in the bequest of Sir Simon 
Bray. Such a relinquishment had never occurred before in 
all the warden’s experience ; and he was very much inclined 
to be offended. 

“ I must say that for a man not to be satisfied as a bedes- 
man of St. Sepulchre’s argues a very wrong state of mind, and 
a very ungrateful heart.” 

“ I’m sure, sir, it’s not from any ingratitude, for I can 
hardly feel thankful enough to you and to Sir Simon, and to 
madam, and the young ladies, and all my comrades in the 
hospital, and I niver expect to be either so comfortable or so 
peaceful again ; but ” 

“ ‘ But ’ ? What can you have to say against the place, 

then ? Not but what there are always plenty of applicants 
for every vacancy ; only I thought I was doing a kindness to 
a man out of Harry’s company. And you’ll not see Harry 
either ; he’s got his leave in March ! ” 

493 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ I’m very sorry. I should like to have seen the lieutenant 
again. But I cannot rest any longer so far away from — 
people I once knew.” 

“ Ten to one, they’re dead, or removed, or something or 
other, by this time ; and it’ll serve you right if they are. 
Mind ! no one can be chosen twice to be a bedesman of St. 
Sepulchre’s.” 

The warden turned away ; and Philip, uneasy at staying, 
disheartened at leaving, went to make his few preparations 
for setting out once more on his journey northwards. He had 
to give notice of his change of residence to the local distri- 
butor of pensions ; and one or two farewells had to be taken, 
with more than usual sadness at the necessity; for Philip, 
under his name of Stephen Freeman, had attached some of 
the older bedesmen a good deal to him, from his unselfishness, 
his willingness to read to them, and to render them many 
little services, and, perhaps, as much as anything, by his 
habitual silence, which made him a convenient recipient of all 
their garrulousness. So, before the time for his departure 
came, he had the opportunity of one more interview with the 
warden, of a more friendly character than that in which he 
gave up his bedesmanship. And so far it was well ; and 
Philip turned his back upon St. Sepulchre’s, with his sore 
heart partly healed by his four months’ residence there. 

He was stronger, too, in body, more capable of the day- 
after-day walks that were required of him. He had saved 
some money from his allowance as bedesman and from his 
pension, and might occasionally have taken an outside place 
on a coach, had it not been that he shrank from the first 
look of every stranger upon his disfigured face. Yet the 
gentle, wistful eyes, and the white and faultless teeth, always 
did away with the first impression, as soon as people became 
a little acquainted with his appearance. 

It was February when Philip left St. Sepulchre’s. It was 
the first week in April, when he began to recognise the 
familiar objects between York and Monkshaven. And now 
he began to hang back, and to question the wisdom of what he 

494 


A Fable at Fault 

had done — just as the warden had prophesied that he would. 
The last night of his two hundred mile walk, he slept at the 
little inn at which he had been enlisted nearly two years 
before. It was by no intention of his that he rested at that 
identical place. Night was drawing on ; and in making, as 
he thought, a short cut, he had missed his way, and was fain 
to seek shelter where he might find it. But it brought him 
very straight face-to-face with his life at that time, and ever 
since. His mad, wild hopes — half the result of intoxication, 
as he now knew — all dead and gone ; the career, then freshly 
opening, shut up against him now ; his youthful strength and 
health changed into premature infirmity, and the home and 
the love that should have opened wide its doors to console 
him for all-r-why, in two years Death might have been busy, 
and taken away from him his last feeble chance of the faint 
happiness of seeing his beloved, without being seen or known 
of her! All that night and all the next day, the fear of 
Sylvia’s possible death overclouded his heart. It was strange 
that he had hardly ever thought of this before ; so strange, 
that now, when the terror came, it took possession of him, 
and he could almost have sworn that she must be lying dead 
in Monkshaven churchyard. Or was it little Bella, that 
blooming, lovely babe, whom he was never to see again ? 
There was the tolling of mournful bells in the distant air to 
his disturbed fancy, and the cry of the happy birds, the 
plaintive bleating of the new-dropped lambs, were all omens 
of evil import to him. 

As well as he could, he found his way back to Monks- 
haven, over the wild heights and moors he had crossed on 
that black day of misery ; why he should have chosen that 
path he could not tell — it was as if he were led, and had no 
free will of his own. 

The soft clear evening was drawing on, and his heart 
beat thick, and then stopped, only to start again with fresh 
violence. There he was, at the top of the long, steep lane 
that was in some parts a literal staircase leading down from 
the hill-top into the High Street, through the very entry up 

495 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

which he had passed when he shrank away from his former 
and his then present life. There he stood, looking down 
once more at the numerous irregular roofs, the many stacks 
of chimneys below him, seeking out that which had once 
been his own dwelling — who dwelt there now ? 

The yellower gleams grew narrower, the evening shadows 
broader; and Philip crept down the lane, a weary, woeful 
man. At every gap in the close-packed buildings he heard 
the merry music of a band, the cheerful sound of excited 
voices. Still he descended slowly, scarcely wondering what 
it could be, for it was not associated in his mind with the one 
pervading thought of Sylvia. 

When he came to the angle of junction between the lane 
and the High Street, he seemed plunged all at once into the 
very centre of the bustle ; and he drew himself up into a 
corner of deep shadow, from whence he could look out upon 
the street. 

A circus was making its grand entry into Monkshaven, 
with all the pomp of colour and of noise that it could muster. 
Trumpeters in parti-coloured clothes rode first, blaring out 
triumphant discord. Next came a gold-and-scarlet chariot, 
drawn by six piebald horses ; and the windings of this team 
through the tortuous narrow street were pretty enough to 
look upon. In the chariot sate kings and queens, heroes and 
heroines, or what were meant for such ; all the little boys 
and girls running alongside of the chariot envied them ; but 
they themselves were very much tired, and shivering with 
cold in their heroic pomp of classic clothing. All this Philip 
might have seen ; did see, in fact ; but heeded not one jot. 
Almost opposite to him, not ten yards apart, standing on the 
raised step at the well-known shop door, was Sylvia, holding 
a child, a merry dancing child, up in her arms to see the 
show. She too, Sylvia, was laughing for pleasure, and for 
sympathy with pleasure. She held the little Bella aloft, that 
the child might see the gaudy procession the better and the 
longer, looking at it herself with red lips apart and white 
teeth glancing through; then she turned to speak to some 

4Q6 


A Fable at Fault 

one behind her— Coulson, as Philip saw the moment after- 
wards ; his answer made her laugh once again. Philip saw 
it all : her bonny careless looks, her pretty matronly form, her 
evident ease of mind and prosperous outward circumstances. 
The years that he had spent in gloomy sorrow, amongst wild 
scenes, on land or by sea, his life in frequent peril of a 
bloody end, had gone by with her like sunny days ; all the 
more sunny because he was not there. So bitterly thought 
the poor disabled marine, as, weary and despairing, he stood 
in the cold shadow and looked upon the home that should 
have been his haven, the wife that should have welcomed 
him, the child that should have been his comfort. He had 
banished himself from his home ; his wife had forsworn him ; 
his child was blossoming into intelligence unwitting of any 
father. Wife, and child, and home, were all doing well 
without him ; what madness had tempted him thither ? An 
hour ago, like a fanciful fool, he had thought she might be 
dead — dead with sad penitence for her cruel words at her 
heart — with mournful wonder at the unaccounted-for absence 
of her child’s father preying on her spirits, and in some 
measure causing the death he had apprehended. But to 
look at her there where she stood, it did not seem as if she 
had had an hour’s painful thought in all her blooming life. 

Ay ! go in to the warm hearth, mother and child, now the 
gay cavalcade has gone out of sight, and the chill of night 
has succeeded to the sun’s setting! Husband and father, 
steal out into the cold dark street, and seek some poor cheap 
lodging where you may rest your weary bones, and cheat 
your more weary heart into forgetfulness in sleep 1 The 
pretty story of the Countess Phillis, who mourned for her 
husband’s absence so long, is a fable of old times ; or rather 
say, Earl Guy never wedded his wife, knowing that one she 
loved better than him was alive all the time she had believed 
him to be dead. 


2 K 


497 


Sylvia’s Lovers 


CHAPTER XLIII 

THE UNKNOWN 

A FEW days before that on which Philip arrived at Monks- 
haven, Kester had come to pay Sylvia a visit. As the earliest 
friend she had-, and also as one who knew the real secrets of 
her life, Sylvia always gave him the warm welcome, the 
cordial words, and the sweet looks in which the old man 
delighted. He had a sort of delicacy of his own which kept 
him from going to see her too often, even when he was 
stationary at Monkshaven; but he looked forward to the 
times when he allowed himself this pleasure, as a child at 
school looks forward to its holidays. The time of his service 
at Haytershank had, on the whole, been the happiest in all 
his long monotonous years of daily labour. Sylvia’s father 
had always treated him with the rough kindness of fellow- 
ship ; Sylvia’s mother had never stinted him in his meat or 
grudged him his share of the best that was going ; and once, 
when he was ill for a few days in the loft above the cow- 
house, she had made him possets, and nursed him with the 
same tenderness which he remembered his mother showing 
to him when he was a little child, but which he had never 
experienced since then. He had known Sylvia herself, as 
bud, and sweet promise of blossom ; and, just as she was 
opening into the full-blown rose, and, if she had been happy 
and prosperous, might have passed out of the narrow circle 
of Kester’s interests, one sorrow after another came down 
upon her pretty innocent head, and Kester’s period of service 
to Daniel Eobson, her father, was tragically cut short. AU 
this made Sylvia the great centre’ of the. faithful herdsman’s 
affection ; and Bella, who reminded him of what Sylvia was 
when first Kester knew her, only occupied the second place 
in his heart, although to the child he was much more demon- 
strative of his regard than to the mother. 

498 


The Unknown 

He had dressed himself in his Sunday best, and, although 
it was only Thursday, had forestalled his Saturday’s shaving ; 
he had provided himself with a paper of humbugs for the 
child — “ humbugs ” being the north-country term for certain 
lumps of toffy, well flavoured with peppermint — and now he 
sat in the accustomed chair, as near to the door as might be, 
in Sylvia’s presence, coaxing the httle one, who was not quite 
sure of his identity, to come to him, by opening the paper 
parcel, and letting its sweet contents be seen. 

“ She’s like thee — and yet she favours her feyther,” said 
he ; and, the moment he had uttered the incautious words, he 
looked up to see how Sylvia had taken the unpremeditated, 
unusual reference to her husband. His stealthy glance did 
not meet her eye ; but, though he thought she had coloured 
a little, she did not seem offended as he had feared. It was 
true that Bella had her father’s grave, thoughtful, dark eyes, 
instead of her mother’s grey ones, out of which the childlike 
expression of wonder would never entirely pass away. And, 
as Bella slowly and half distrustfully made her way towards 
the temptation offered her, she looked at Kester with just her 
father’s look. 

Sylvia said nothing in direct reply ; Kester almost thought 
she could not have heard him. But, by-and-by, she said — 

“ Yo’ll have beared how Kinraid — who’s a captain now, 
and a grand officer — has gone and got married.” 

“ Nay ! ” said Kester, in genuine surprise. “ He niver has, 
for sure ! ” 

“ Ay, but he has,” said Sylvia. “ And I’m sure I dunnot 
see why he shouldn’t.” 

“Well, well!” said Kester, not looking up at her, for 
he caught the inflections in the tones of her voice. “ He 
were a fine stirrin’ .chap, yon ; an’ he were allays for doin 
summut ; an’, when he fund as he couldn’t ha’ one thing as 
he’d set his mind on, a reckon he thought he mun put up wi 
another.” 

“ It ’ud be no ‘ putting up,’ ” said Sylvia. “ She were 
staying at Bessy Dawson’s, and she come here to see me 

499 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

she’s as pretty a young lady as yo’d see on a summer’s day ; 
and a real lady, too, wi’ a fortune. She didn’t speak two 
words wi’out bringing in her husband’s name — ‘ the captain,’ 
as she called him.” 

“ An’ she come to see thee ? ” said Kester, cocking his 
eye at Sylvia with the old shrewd look. “ That were summut 
queer, weren’t it ? ” 

Sylvia reddened a good deal. 

“ He’s too fause to have spoken to her on me, in t’ old 
way — as he used for t’ speak to me. I were nought to her 
but Philip’s wife.” 

“ An’ what t’ dickins had she to do wi’ Philip ? ” asked 
Kester in intense surprise ; and so absorbed in curiosity that 
he let the humbugs all fall out of the paper upon the floor, 
and the little Bella sat down, plump, in the midst of treasures 
as great as those fabled to exist on Tom Tiddler’s ground. 

Sylvia was again silent; but Kester, knowing her well, 
was sure that she was struggling to speak, and bided his 
time, without repeating his question. 

“ She said — and I think her tale were true, though I 
cannot get to t’ rights on it, think on it as I will — as Philip 
saved her husband’s life, somewheere near-abouts to Jerusalem. 
She would have it that t’ captain — for I think I’ll niver ca’ 
him Kinraid again — was in a great battle, and were near upon 
being shot by t’ French, when Philip — our Philip — come up 
and went right into t’ fire o’ t’ guns, and saved her husband’s 
life. And she spoke as if both she and t’ captain were more 
beholden to Philip than words could tell. And she come to 
see me, to try and get news on him.” 

“It’s a queer kind o’ story,” said Kester meditatively. 
“ A should ha’ thought as Philip were more likely to ha’ 
gi’en him a shove into t’ thick on it, than t’ help him out o’ t’ 
scrape.” 

“ Nay ! ” said Sylvia, suddenly looking straight at Kester 
“ yo’re out theere. Philip had a deal o’ good in him. And I 
dunnot think as he’d ha’ gone and married another woman so 
soon, if he’d been i’ Kinraid’s place.” 

500 


The .Unknown 

“ An’ yo’ve niver beared on Philip sin’ he left ? ” asked 
Kester, after a while. 

“Niver; nought but what she told me. And she said 
that t’ captain made inquiry for him right and left, as soon 
after that happened as might be, and could hear niver a word 
about him. No one had seen him, or knowed his name.” 

“ Yo’ niver beared of his goin’ for t’ be a soldier ? ” per- 
severed Kester. 

“ Niver. I’ve told yo’ once. It were unlike P hi lip to 
think o’ such a thing.” 

“ But thou mun ha’ been thinkin’ on him at times i’ a’ 
tl;iese years. Bad as he’d behaved hissel’, he were t’ feyther 
o’ thy little un. What did ta think he had been a-gait on 
when he left here ? ” 

“ I didn’t know. I were noane so keen a-thinking on him 
at first. I tried to put him out o’ my thoughts a’together ; 
for it made me like mad to think how he’d stood between 
me and — that other. But I’d begun to wonder and to wonder 
about him, and to think I should like to hear as he were doing 
well. I reckon I thought he were i’ London, wheere he’d 
been that time afore, yo’ know, and had allays spoke as if 
he’d enjoyed hissel’ tolerable ; and then Molly Brunton told 
me on t’ other one’s marriage ; and, somehow, it gave me a 
shake in my heart, and I began for to wish I hadn’t said all 
them words i’ my passion ; and then that fine young lady 
come wi’ her story — and I’ve thought a deal on it since — 
and my mind has come out clear. Philip’s dead, and it were 
his spirit as come to t’ other’s help in his time o’ need. I’ve 
beared feyther say as spirits cannot rest i’ their graves, for 
trying to undo t’ wrongs they’ve done i’ their bodies.” 

“ Them’s my conclusions,” said Kester solemnly. “ A 
was fain for t’ hear what were yo’r judgments first; but 
them’s the conclusions I corned to, as soon as I beared t’ 
tale.” 

“ Let alone that one thing,” said Sylvia, “ he were a kind, 
good man.” 

“ It were a big deal on a ‘ one thing,’ though,” said Kester. 

501 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

“ It just spoilt yo’r life, my poor lass ; an’ might ha’ gone 
near to spoilin’ Charley Kinraid’s too.” 

“ Men takes a deal more nor women to spoil their lives,” 
said Sylvia bitterly. 

“ Not a’ mak’ o’ men. I reckon, lass, Philip’s life were 
pretty well on for bein’ spoilt at after he left here ; and it 
were, mebbe, a good thing he got rid on it so soon.” 

“ I wish I’d just had a few kind words wi’ him, I do,” 
said Sylvia, almost on the point of crying. 

“ Come, lass, it’s as ill moanin’ after what’s past as it ’ud 
be for me t’ fill my eyes wi’ weepin’ after t’ humbugs as this 
little wench o’ thine has grubbed up whilst we’n been talkin’ . 
Why, there’s not one on ’em left ! ” 

“ She’s a sad spoilt little puss ! ” said Sylvia, holding out 
her arms to the child, who ran into them, and began patting 
her mother’s cheeks, and pulling at the soft brown curls 
tucked away beneath the matronly cap. “ Mammy spoils 
her, and Hester spoils her ” 

“Granny Eose doesn’t spoil me,” said the child, with 
quick, intelligent discrimination, interrupting her mother’s list. 

“ No ; but Jeremiah Foster does above a bit. He’ll come 
in fro’ t’ bank, Kester, and ask for her, a’most ivery day. 
And he’ll bring her things in his pocket ; and she’s so fause, 
she allays goes straight to peep in, and then he shifts t’ 
apple or t’ toy into another. Eh! but she’s a little fause 
one ” — half devouring the child with her kisses. “ And he 
comes and takes her a walk oftentimes, and he goes as slow 
as if he were quite an old man, to keep pace wi’ Bella’s 
steps. I often run upstairs and watch ’em out o’ t’ window ; 
he doesn’t care to have me with ’em, he’s so fain t’ have t’ 
child all to hisself.” 

“ She’s a bonny un, for sure,” said Kester ; “ but not so 
pretty as thou was, Sylvie. A’ve niver tell’d thee what a 
come for, tho’ ; and it’s about time for me t’ be goin’. A’m 
off to t’ Cheviots to-morrow morn, t’ fetch home some 
sheep as Jonas Blundell has purchased. It’ll be a job o’ 
better nor two months, a reckon.” 

502 


The Unknown 

“ It 11 be a nice time o’ year,” said Sylvia, a little sur- 
prised at Kester’s evident discouragement at the prospect 
of the journey or absence; he had often been away from 
Monkshaven for a longer time, without seeming to care so 
much about it. 

“ Well, yo’ see it’s a bit hard upon me for t’ leave my 
sister — she as is t’ widow-woman, wheere a put up when 
a’m at home. Things is main an’ dear ; four-pound loaves 
is at sixteenpence ; an’ there’s a deal o’ talk on a famine i’ 
t’ land; an’ whatten a paid for my victual an’ t’ bed i’ t’ 
lean-to helped t’ oud woman a bit — an’ she’s sadly down i’ 
t’ mouth ; for she cannot hear on a lodger for t’ tak’ my 
place, for a’ she’s moved o’er to t’ other side o’ t’ bridge for 
t’ be nearer t’ new buildings, an’ t’ grand new walk they’re 
makin’ round t’ cliffs, thinkin’ she’d be likelier t’ pick up a 
labourer as would be glad on a bed near his work. A’d ha’ 
liked to ha’ set her a-gait wi’ a ’sponsible lodger, afore a’d ha’ 
left ; for she’s just so soft-hearted, any scamp may put upon 
her, if he nobbut gets houd on her blind side.” 

“ Can I help her ? ” said Sylvia, in her eager way. “ I 
should be so glad ; and I’ve a deal of money by me ” 

“ Nay, my lass,” said Kester, “ thou munnot go off so 
fast ; it were just what I were feared on i’ tollin’ thee. I’ve 
left her a bit o’ money, and I’ll mak’ shift to send her more ; 
it’s just a kind word, t’ keep up her heart when I’m gone, as 
I want. If thou’d step in and see her fra’ time to time, and 
cheer her up a bit wi’ talkin’ to her on me, I’d take it very 
kind, and I’d go off wi’ a lighter heart.” 

“ Then I’m sure I’ll do it for yo’, Kester. I niver justly 
feel like mysel’ when yo’re away, for I’m lonesome enough 
at times. She and I will talk a’ t’ better about yo’ for both 
on us grieving after yo’.” 

So Kester took his leave, his mind set at ease by Sylvia’s 
promise to go and see his sister pretty often during his 
absence in the North. 

But Sylvia’s habits were changed since she, as a girl at 
Haytersbank, liked to spend half her time in the open air, 

503 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

running out perpetually, without anything on, to scatter 
crumbs to the poultry, or to take a piece of bread to the old 
cart-horse, or to go up to the garden for a handful of herbs, or 
to clamber to the highest point around, to blow the horn 
which summoned her father and Kester home to dinner. 
Living in a town, where it was necessary to put on hat and 
cloak before going out into the street, and then to walk in a 
steady and decorous fashion, she had only cared to escape 
down to the freedom of the sea- shore, until Phihp went 
away ; and, after that time, she had learnt so to fear observa- 
tion as a deserted wife, that nothing but Bella’s health would 
have been a sufficient motive to take her out of doors. And, 
as she had told Kester, the necessity of giving the little girl 
a daily walk was very much lightened by the great love and 
affection which Jeremiah Foster now bore to the child. Ever 
since the day when the baby had come to his knee, allured 
by the temptation of his watch, he had apparently considered 
her as in some sort belonging to him ; and now he had 
almost come to think that he had a right to claim her as his 
companion in his walk back from the bank to his early 
dinner, where a high chair was always placed ready for the 
chance of her coming to share his meal. On these occasions 
he generally brought her back to the shop-door, when he 
returned to his afternoon’s work at the bank. Sometimes, 
however, he would leave word that she was to be sent for 
from his house in the New Town, as his business at the bank 
for that day was ended. Then Sylvia was compelled to put 
on her things, and fetch back her darling ; and, excepting for 
this errand, she seldom went out at all on week-days. 

About a fortnight after Kester’s farewell call, this need 
for her visit to Jeremiah Foster’s arose ; and it seemed to 
Sylvia that there could not be a better opportunity of fulfill- 
ing her promise and going to see the widow Dobson, whose 
cottage was on the other side of the river, low down on the 
cliff side, just at the bend and rush of the full stream into 
the open sea. She set off pretty early, in order to get there 
first. She found the widow with her house-place tidied up 

504 


The Unknown 

after the midday meal, and busy knitting at the open door — 
not looking at her rapid-clicking needles, but gazing at the 
rush and recession of the waves before her ; yet not seeing 
them either — rather, seeing days long past. 

She started into active civility as soon as she recognised 
Sylvia, who was to her as a great lady, never having known 
Sylvia Eobson in her wild childish days. Widow Dobson 
was always a little scandahsed at her brother Christopher’s 
familiarity with Mrs. Hephurn. 

She dusted a chair which needed no dusting, and placed 
it for Sylvia, sitting down herself on a three-legged stool, 
to mark her sense of the difference in their conditions, for 
there was another chair or two in the humble dwelling ; and 
then the two fell into talk — ^first about Kester, whom his 
sister would persist in calling Christopher, as if his dignity 
as her elder brother was compromised by any familiar 
abbreviation; and by-and-by she opened her heart a little 
more. 

“ A could wish as a’d learned write-of-hand,” said she ; 
“ for a’ve that for to tell Christopher as might set his mind 
at ease. But yo’ see, if a wrote him a letter he couldn’t read 
it ; so a just comfort mysel’ wi’ thinkin’ nobody need learn 
writin’ unless they’n got friends as can read. But a reckon 
he’d ha’ been glad to hear as a’ve gotten a lodger.” Here 
she nodded her head in the direction of the door opening out 
of the house-place into the “ lean-to,” which Sylvia had 
observed on drawing near the cottage, and the recollection 
of the mention of which by Kester had enabled her to identify 
widow Dobson’s dwelling. “ He’s a-bed yonder,” the latter 
continued, dropping her voice. “ He’s a queer-lookin’ tyke ; 
but a don’t think as he’s a bad un.” 

“ When did he come ? ” said Sylvia, remembering Kester ’s 
account of his sister’s character, and feeling as though it 
behoved her, as Kester’s confidante on this head, to give 
cautious and prudent advice. 

“ Eh ! a matter of a se’nnight ago. A’m noane good at 
mindin’ time ; he’s paid me his rent twice, but then he were 

505 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

keen to pay aforehand. He’d corned in one night, an’ sate 
him down afore he could speak, he were so done up ; he’d 
been on tramp this many a day, a reckon. ‘ Can yo’ give me 
a bed ? ’ says he, panting-like, after a bit. ‘ A chap as a met 
near here says as yo’ve a lodging for t’ let.’ ‘ Ay,’ says a, 
‘ a ha’ that ; but yo’ mun pay me a shilling a week for ’t.’ 
Then my mind misgive me, for a thought he hadn’t a shilling 
i’ t’ world ; an’ yet, if he hadn’t, a should just ha’ gi’en him 
t’ bed, a’ t’ same : a’m not one as can turn a dog out if he 
comes t’ me wearied o’ his life. So he outs wi’ a shillin’, an’ 
lays it down on t’ table, ’bout a word. ‘ A’ll not trouble yo’ 
long,’ says he. ‘ A’m one as is best out o’ t’ world,’ he says. 
Then a thought as a’d been a bit hard upon him. An’ says 
I, ‘ A’m a widow-woman, and one as has getten but few 
friends ’ ; for, yo’ see, a were low about our Christopher’s goin’ 
away north ; ‘ so a’m forced-like to speak hard to folk ; but 
a’ve made mysel’ some stirabout for my supper ; and, if yo’d 
like t’ share an’ share about wi’ me, it’s but puttin’ a sup 
more watter to ’t, and God’s blessing ’ll be on ’t, just as 
same as if ’t were meal.’ So he ups wi’ his hand afore his 
e’en, and says not a word. At last he says, ‘ Missus,’ says 
he, ‘ can God’s blessing be shared by a sinner — one o’ t’ 
devil’s children ? ’ says he. ‘ For the Scriptur’ says, he’s t’ 
father o’ lies.’ So a were puzzled-like ; an’ at length a says, 

‘ Thou mun ask t’ parson that ; a’m but a poor faint-hearted 
widow- woman ; but a’ve allays had God’s blessing somehow, 
now a bethink me, an’ a’ll share it wi’ thee as far as my will 
goes.’ So he raxes his hand across t’ table, an’ mutters 
summat, as he grips mine. A thought it were Scriptur’ as 
he said ; but a’d needed a’ my strength just then for t’ lift t’ 
pot off t’ fire — it were t’ first vittle a’d tasted sin’ morn, for t’ 
famine comes down like stones on t’ head o’ us poor folk ; 
an’ a’ a said were just ‘ Coom along, chap, an’ fa’ to ; an’ 
God’s blessing be on him as eat’s most ! ’ An’ sin’ that day 
him and me’s been as thick as thieves, only he’s niver telled 
me nought of who he is, or wheere he comes fra’. But a 
think he’s one o’ them poor colliers, as has getten brunt i’ t’ 

506 


The Unknown 

coal-pits ; for, t’ be sure, his face is a’ black wi’ fire-marks ; 
an’ o’ late days he’s ta’en t’ his bed, an’ just lies there 
sighing — for one can hear him, plain as day-leet, thro’ t’ bit 
partition wa’.” 

As a proof of this, a sigh — almost a groan — startled the 
two women at this very moment. 

“ Poor fellow ! ” said Sylvia, in a soft whisper. “ There’s 
more sore hearts i’ t’ world than one reckons for ! ” But 
after a while, she bethought her again of Kester’s account of 
his sister’s “ softness ; ” and she thought that it behoved her 
to give some good advice. So she added, in a sterner, 
harder tone — “ Still, yo’ say yo’ know nought about him ; 
and tramps is tramps a’ t’ world over ; and yo’re a widow, 
and it behoves yo’ to be careful. I think I’d just send him 
off as soon as he’s a bit rested. Yo’ say he’s plenty o’ 
money ? ” 

“ Nay ! A never said that. A know nought about it. 
He pays me aforehand; an’ he pays me down for whativer 
a’ve gotten for him ; but that’s but little ; he’s noane up t’ 
his vittle, though a’ve made him some broth as good as a 
could make ’em.” 

“ I wouldn’t send him away till he was well again, if I 
were yo’ ; but I think yo’d be better rid on him,” said Sylvia. 
“ It would be different if yo’r brother were in Monkshaven.” 
As she spoke, she rose to go. 

Widow Dobson held her hand in hers for a minute ; then 
the humble woman said — 

“ Yo’ll noane be vexed wi’ me, missus, if a cannot find i’ 
my heart t’ turn him out till he wants to go hissel’ ? For a 
wouldn’t like to vex yo’, for Christopher’s sake ; but a know 
what it is for t’ feel for friendless folk, an’, choose what may 
come on it, I cannot send him away.” 

“ No ! ” said Sylvia. “ Why should I be vexed ? it’s no 
business o’ mine. Only, I should send him away, if I was yo’. 
He might go lodge wheere there was men-folk, who know t’ 
ways o’ tramps, and are up to them.” 

Into the sunshine went Sylvia. In the cold shadow the 

507 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

miserable tramp lay sighing. She did not know that she had 
been so near to him towards whom her heart was softening, 
day by day. 


CHAPTEB XLIV 

FIBST WOEDS 

It was the spring of 1800. Old people yet can teU of the 
hard famine of that year. The harvest of the autumn before 
had failed ; the war and the corn laws had brought the price 
of corn up to a famine-rate, and much of what came into the 
market was unsound, and consequently unfit for food; yet 
hungry creatures bought it eagerly, and tried to cheat disease 
by mixing the damp, sweet, clammy flour with rice or potato 
meal. Kich families denied themselves pastry and all un- 
necessary and luxurious uses of wheat in any shape ; the 
duty on hair-powder was increased ; and all these palliatives 
were but as drops in the ocean of the great want of the 
people. 

Philip, in spite of himself, recovered and grew stronger ; 
and, as he grew stronger, hunger took the place of loathing 
dislike to food. But his money was aU spent ; and what was 
his poor pension of sixpence a day in that terrible year of 
famine ? Many a summer’s night he walked for hours and 
hours round the house which once was his, which might be 
his now, with all its homely, blessed comforts, could he but 
go and assert his right to it. But to go with authority, and 
in his poor, maimed guise assert that right, he had need be 
other than Philip Hepburn. So he stood in the old shelter 
of the steep, crooked lane opening on to the hill out of the 
market-place, and watched the soft fading of the summer’s 
eve into night ; the closing of the once familiar shop ; the 
exit of good, comfortable William Coulson, going to his own 

508. 


First Words 

home, his own wife, his comfortable, plentiful supper. Then 
Philip — there were no police in those days, and scarcely an 
old watchman in that primitive little town — would. go round 
on the shady sides of streets, and, quickly glancing about 
him, cross the bridge, looking on the quiet, rippling stream, 
the grey shimmer foretelling the coming dawn over the sea, 
the black masts and rigging of the still vessels against the 
sky ; he could see with his wistful, eager eyes the shape of 
the windows — the window of the very room in which his 
wife and child slept, unheeding of him, the hungry, broken- 
hearted outcast. He would go back to his lodging, and softly 
lift the latch of the door ; still more softly, but never without 
an unspoken, grateful prayer, pass by the poor sleeping 
woman who had given him a shelter and her share of God’s 
blessing — she who, like him, knew not the feeling of satisfied 
hunger ; and then he laid him down on the narrow pallet in 
the lean-to, and again gave Sylvia happy lessons in the kitchen 
at Haytersbank, and the dead were alive; and Charley 
Kinraid, the specksioneer, had never come to trouble the 
hopeful, gentle peace. 

For widow Dobson had never taken Sylvia’s advice. The 
tramp known to her by the name of Freeman — that in which 
he received his pension — lodged with her still, and paid his 
meagre shilling in advance weekly. A shilling was meagre 
in those hard days of scarcity. A hungry man might easily 
eat the produce of a shilling in a day. 

Widow Dobson pleaded this to Sylvia, as an excuse for 
keeping her lodger on ; to a more calculating head it might 
have seemed a reason for sending him away. 

“ Yo’ see, missus,” said she apologetically to Sylvia — one 
evening, as the latter called upon the poor widow before going 
to fetch little Bella (it was now too hot for the child to cross 
the bridge in the full heat of the summer sun, and Jeremiah 
would take her up to her supper instead) — “ Yo’ see, missus, 
there’s not a many as ’ud take him in for a shillin’ when it 
goes so little way ; or, if they did, they’d take it out on him 
some other way, an’ he’s not gotten much else, a reckon. 

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Sylvia’s Lovers 

He ca’s me granny, but a’m vast mista’en if he’s ten year 
younger nor me ; but he’s getten a fine appetite of his own, 
choose how young he may be ; an’ a can see as he could eat 
a deal more nor he’s getten money to buy, an’ it’s few as can 
mak’ victual go farther nor me. Eh, missus, but yo’ may 
trust me a’ll send him off when times is better ; but just now 
it would be sendin’ him to his death ; for a ha’ plenty and to 
spare, thanks be to God an’ yo’r bonny face.” 

So Sylvia had to be content with the knowledge that the 
money she gladly gave to Kester’s sister went partly to feed 
the lodger who was neither labourer nor neighbour, but only 
just a tramp, who, she feared, was preying on the good old 
woman. Still, the cruel famine cut sharp enough to pene- 
trate all hearts ; and Sylvia, an hour after the conversation 
recorded above, was much touched, on her return from 
Jeremiah Foster’s with the little merry, chattering Bella, at 
seeing the feeble steps of one, who, she knew by descrip- 
tion, must be widow Dobson’s lodger, turn up from the 
newly-cut road which was to lead to the terrace walk round 
the North Cliff, a road which led to no dwelling but widow 
Dobson’s. Tramp and vagrant he might be, in the eyes of 
the law ; but, whatever his character, Sylvia could see him 
before her in the soft dusk, creeping along over the bridge, 
often stopping to rest and hold by some support, and then 
going on again towards the town, to which she and happy 
little Bella were wending. 

A thought came over her : she had always fancied that 
this unknown man was some fierce vagabond, and had 
dreaded lest in the lonely bit of road between widow 
Dobson’s cottage and the peopled highway, he should fall 
upon her and rob her, if he learnt that she had money with 
her ; and several times she had gone away without leaving 
the little gift she had intended, because she imagined that 
she had seen the door of the small chamber in the “ lean-to ” 
open softly while she was there, as if the occupant (whom 
widow Dobson spoke of as never leaving the hous-e before 
dusk, excepting once a week) were listening for the chink of 

510 


First Words 

the coin in her little leathern pnrse. Now that she saw him 
walking before her with heavy languid steps, this fear gave 
place to pity ; she remembered her mother’s gentle super- 
stition which had prevented her from ever sending the 
hungry empty away, for fear lest she herself should come to 
need bread. 

“ Lassie,” said she to little Bella, who held a cake, which 
Jeremiah’s housekeeper had given her, tight in her hand, 
“ yon poor man theere is hungry ; will Bella give him her 
cake, and mother will make her another to-morrow twice 
as big ? ” 

For this consideration, and with the feeling of satisfac- 
tion which a good supper, not an hour ago, gives even to the 
hungry stomach of a child of three years old, Bella, after 
some thought, graciously assented to the sacrifice. 

Sylvia stopped, the cake in her hand, and turned her 
back to the town, and to the slow wayfarer in front. Under 
the cover of her shawl she slipped a half-crown deep into 
the crumb of the cake, and then restoring it to little Bella, 
she gave her her directions. 

“ Mammy will carry Bella, and when Bella goes past the 
poor man, she shall give him the cake over mammy’s 
shoulder. Poor man is so hungry ; and Bella and mammy 
have plenty to eat, and to spare.” 

The child’s heart was touched by the idea of hunger, and 
her little arm was outstretched ready for the moment her 
mother’s hurried steps took her brushing pass the startled, 
trembling Phihp. 

“ Poor man, eat this ; Bella not hungry.” 

They were the first words he had ever heard his child 
utter. The echoes of them rang in his ears, as he stood 
endeavouring to hide his disfigured face by looking over the 
parapet of the bridge down upon the stream running away 
towards the ocean, into which his hot tears slowly fell, un- 
heeded by the weeper. Then he changed the intention with 
which he had set out upon his nightly walk, and turned 
back to his lodging. 

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Of course the case was different with Sylvia ; she would 
have forgotten the whole affair very speedily, if it had not 
been for little Bella’s frequent recurrence to the story of the 
hungry man, which had touched her small sympathies with 
the sense of an intelligible misfortune. She liked to act the 
dropping of the bun into the poor man’s hand as she went 
past him, and would take up any article near her in order to 
illustrate the gesture she had used. One day, she got hold 
of Hester’s watch for this purpose, as being of the same 
round shape as the cake; and though Hester, for whose 
benefit the child was repeating the story, in her broken lan- 
guage for the third or fourth time, tried to catch the watch 
as it was intended that she should (she being the representa- 
tive of the “ hungry man ” for the time being), it went to the 
ground with a smash that frightened the little girl, and she 
began to cry at the mischief she had done. 

“ Don’t cry, Bella,” said Hester. “ Niver play with 
watches again. I didn’t see thee at mine, or I’d ha’ stopped 
thee in time. But I’ll take it to old Barley’s on th’ quay-side, 
and maybe he’ll soon set it to rights again. Only, Bella must 
niver play with watches again.” 

“ Niver no more ! ” promised the little sobbing child. 
And, that evening, Hester took her watch down to old 
Barley’s. 

This William Barley was the brother of the gardener at 
the rectory ; the uncle to the sailor who had been shot by the 
press-gang years before, and to his bed-ridden sister. He was 
a clever mechanician ; and his skill as a repairer of watches 
and chronometers was great among the sailors, with whom he 
did a very irregular sort of traffic, conducted often without 
much use of money, but rather on the principle of barter ; 
they bringing him foreign coins and odd curiosities, picked up 
on their travels, in exchange for his services to their nautical 
instruments or their watches. If he had ever had capital to 
extend his business, he might have been a rich man ; but it 
is to be doubted whether he would have been as happy as he 
was now in his queer httle habitation of two rooms, the front 

SI2 


First Words 

one being both shop and workshop, the other serving the 
double purpose of bedroom and museum. 

The skill of this odd-tempered, shabby old man was some- 
times sought by the jeweller who kept the more ostentatious 
shop in the High Street ; but, before Darley would undertake 
any “ tickle ” piece of delicate workmanship for the other, he 
sneered at his ignorance, and taunted and abused him well. 
Yet he had soft places in his heart, and Hester Eose had 
found her way to one by her patient, enduring kindness to his 
bed-ridden niece. He never snarled at her, as he did at too 
many ; and, on the few occasions when she had asked him to 
do anything for her, he had seemed as if she were conferring 
the favour on him, not he on her, and only made the smallest 
possible charge. 

She found him now sitting where he could catch the 
most light for his work, spectacles on nose, and microscope 
in hand. 

He took her watch, and examined it carefully without 
a word in reply to her. Then he began to open it and take 
it to pieces, in order to ascertain the nature of the mischief. 

Suddenly he heard her catch her breath with a checked 
sound of surprise. He looked at her from above his spec- 
tacles ; she was holding a watch in her hand, which she had 
just taken up off the counter. 

“ What’s amiss wi’ thee now ? ” said Darley. “ Hast ta 
niver seen a watch o’ that mak’ afore ? or is it them letters on 
t’ back, as is so wonderful ? ” 

Yes, it was those letters — that interlaced, old-fashioned 
cipher. That Z. H. that she knew of old stood for Zachary 
Hepburn, Philip’s father. She knew how Philip valued this 
watch. She remembered having seen it in his hands, the 
very day before his disappearance, when he was looking at 
the time, in his annoyance at Sylvia’s detention in her walk 
with baby. Hester had no doubt that he had, taken this 
watch as a matter of course away with him. She felt sure 
that he would not part with this relic of his dead father on 
any slight necessity. Where, then, was Philip ? — by what 

513 2 L 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

chance of life or death had this, his valued property, found 
its way once more to Monkshaven ? 

“ Where did yo’ get this ? ” she asked, in as quiet a 
manner as she could assume, sick with eagerness as she was. 

To ho one else would Darley have answered such a 
question. He made a mystery of most of his dealings ; not 
that he had anything to conceal, hut simply because he 
delighted in concealment. He took it out of her hands, 
looked at the number marked inside, and the maker’s name 
— “ Natteau Gent, York ” — and then replied — 

“ A man brought it me yesterday, at nightfall, for t’ sell 
it. It’s a matter o’ forty years old. Natteau Gent has been 
dead and in his grave pretty nigh as long as that. But he 
did his work well when he were alive ; and so I gave him as 
brought it for t’ sell about as much as it were worth, i’ good 
coin. A tried him first i’ t’ bartering line, but he wouldn’t 
bite ; like enough he wanted food — many a one does now-a- 
days.” 

“ Who was he ? ” gasped Hester. 

“ Bless t’ woman ! how should I know ? ” 

“ What was he like ? — how old ? — tell me ! ” 

“ My lass, a’ve summut else to do wi’ my eyes than go 
peering into men’s faces i’ t’ dusk hght.” 

“ But yo’ must have had light for t’ judge about the 
watch.” 

“ Eh ! how sharp we are ! A’d a candle close to my nose. 
But a didn’t tak’ it up for to gaze inf his face. That 
wouldn’t be manners, to my thinking.” 

Hester was silent. Then Barley’s heart relented. 

“ If yo’re so set upo’ knowing who f fellow was, a could, 
mebbe, put yo’ on his tracks.” 

“ How ? ” said Hester eagerly. “ I do want to know. I 
want to know very much, and for a good reason.” 

“ Well, then, a’ll tell yo’. He’s a queer tyke, that one is. 
A’ll be bound he were sore pressed for f brass ; yet he out’s 
wi’ a good half-crown, all wrapped up i’ paper, and he axes 
me f make a hole in ’t. Says I, ‘ It’s marring good king’s 

5H 


First Words 

coin i at after a ve made a hole in ’t, it’ll never pass current 
again.’ So he mumbles, and mumbles ; but, for a’ that, it 
must needs be done ; and he’s left it here, and is t’ call for ’t 
to-morrow at e’en.’ 

“ Ob, William Darley ! ” said Hester, clasping her bands 
tight together. “ Find out who be is, where be is — anything 
— everything about him — and I will so bless yo’.” 

Darley looked at her sharply, but with some signs of 
sympathy on his grave face. “ My woman,” he said, “ a could 
ha’ wished as yo’d niver seen t’ watch. It’s poor, thankless 
work thinking too much on one o’ God’s creatures. But a’ll 
do thy bidding,” he continued, in a lighter and different tone. 
“ A’m a cute old badger when need be. Come for thy watch 
in a couple o’ days, and a’ll tell yo’ all as a’ve learnt.” 

So Hester went away, her heart beating with the promise 
of knowing something about Phihp — how much, how little, 
in these first moments, she dared not say even to herself. 
Some sailor, newly-landed from distant seas, might have 
become possessed of Philip’s watch in far-off latitudes ; in 
which case, Philip would be dead. That might be. She 
tried to think that this was the most probable way of 
accounting for the watch being in William Parley’s 
possession. She could be certain as to the positive identity 
of the watch. Again, it might be that Philip himself was near 
at hand — was here in this very place — starving, as too many 
were, for insufficiency of means to buy the high-priced food. 
And then her heart burnt within her, as she thought of the 
succulent, comfortable meals which Sylvia provided every 
day — nay, three times a day — for the household in the 
market-place, at the head of which Philip ought to have 
been ; but his place knew him not. For Sylvia had in- 
herited her mother’s talent for house-keeping ; and on her, in 
Alice’s decrepitude and Hester’s other occupations in the 
shop, devolved the cares of due provision for the somewhat 
heterogeneous family. 

And Sylvia ! Hester groaned in heart over the remem- 
brance of Sylvia’s words, “ I can niver forgive him the wrong 

515 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

he did to me,” that night when Hester had come, and clung 
to her, making the sad, shameful confession of her unreturned 
love. 

What could ever bring these two together again ? Could 
Hester herself — ignorant of the strange mystery of Sylvia’s 
heart, as those who are guided solely by obedience to principle 
must ever be of the clue to the actions of those who are led 
by the passionate ebb and flow of impulse ? Could Hester 
herself ? Oh ! how should she speak, how should she act, if 
Philip were near — if Philip were sad and in miserable estate ? 
Her own misery at this contemplation of the case was too 
great to bear ; and she sought her usual refuge in the thought 
of some text, some promise of Scripture, which should 
strengthen her faith. 

“With God all things are possible,” said she, repeating 
the words as though to lull her anxiety to rest. 

Yes ; with God all things are possible. But ofttimes He 
does His work with awful instruments. There is a peace- 
maker whose name is Death, 


CHAPTEE XLV 

SAVED AND LOST 

Hestee went out on the evening of the day after that on 
which the unknown owner of the half-crown had appointed 
to call for it again at William Parley’s. She had schooled 
herself to believe that time and patience would serve her 
best. Her plan was to obtain all the knowledge about 
Philip that she could in the first instance ; and then, if cir- 
cumstances allowed it, as in all probability they would, to let 
drop after drop of healing, peace-making words and thoughts 
fall on Sylvia’s obdurate, unforgiving heart. So Hester put 
on her things, and went out, down towards the old quay -side, 
on that evening, after the shop was closed. 

516 


Saved and Lost 

Poor Sylvia ! She was unforgiving, but not obdurate to 
the full extent of what Hester believed. Many a time since 
Philip went away, bad she unconsciously missed bis protect- 
ing love — when folks spoke shortly to her; when Alice 
scolded her as one of the non-elect; when Hester’s gentle 
gravity had something of severity in it ; when her own heart 
failed her as to whether her mother would have judged that 
she had done well, could that mother have known all, as 
possibly she did by this time. Philip had never spoken 
otherwise than tenderly to her during the eighteen months 
of their married life, except on the two occasions before 
recorded ; once, when she referred to her dream of Kinraid’s 
possible return, and once again, on the evening of the day 
before her discovery of his concealment of the secret of 
Kinraid’s involuntary disappearance. 

After she had learnt that Kinraid was married, her heart 
had still more strongly turned to Philip ; she thought that he 
had judged rightly in what he had given as the excuse for his 
double-dealing ; she was even more indignant at Kinraid’s 
fickleness than she had any reason to be ; and she began to 
learn the value of such enduring love as Phihp’s had been — 
lasting ever since the days when she first began to fancy 
what a man’s love for a woman should be, when she had first 
shrunk from the tone of tenderness he put into his especial 
term for her, a girl of twelve — “ Little lassie,” as he was wont 
to call her. 

But across all this relenting came the shadow of her vow 
— like the chill of a great cloud passing over a sunny plain. 
How should she decide ? what would be her duty, if he came 
again, and once more called her “ wife ” ? She shrank from 
such a possibility with all the weakness and superstition of 
her nature ; and this it was which made her strengthen her- 
self with the re-utterance of unforgiving words, and shun all 
recurrence to the subject on the rare occasions when Hester 
had tried to bring it back, with a hope of softening the heart 
which to her appeared altogether hardened on this one 
point. 


517 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

Now, on this bright summer evening, while Hester had 
gone down to the quay-side, Sylvia stood with her out-of- 
door things on in the parlour, rather impatiently watching 
the sky, full of hurrying clouds, and flushing with the warm 
tints of the approaching sunset. She could not leave Alice : 
the old woman had grown so infirm that she was never left 
by her daughter and Sylvia at the same time ; yet Sylvia had 
to fetch her little girl from the New Town, where she had 
been to her supper at Jeremiah Foster’s. Hester had said 
that she should not be away more than a quarter of an 
hour ; and Hester was generally so punctual that any failure 
of hers, in this respect, appeared almost in the light of an 
injury to those who had learnt to rely upon her. Sylvia 
wanted to go and see widow Dobson, and learn when Kester 
might be expected home. His two months were long past ; 
and Sylvia had heard through the Fosters of some suitable 
and profitable employment for him, of which she thought he 
would be glad to know as soon as possible. It was now 
some time since she had been able to get so far as across the 
bridge ; and, for aught she knew, Kester might already be 
come back from his expedition to the Cheviots. Kester was 
come back. Scarce five minutes had elapsed after these 
thoughts had passed through her mind, before his hasty hand 
lifted the latch of the kitchen-door, and his hurried steps 
brought him face-to-face with her. The smile of greeting was 
arrested on her lips by one look at him ; his eyes staring 
wide, the expression on his face wild, and yet pitiful. 

“ That’s reet,” said he, seeing that her things were already 
on. “ Thou’rt wanted sore. Come along ! ” 

“ Oh ! dear God ! my child ! ” said Sylvia, clutching at the 
chair near her ; but recovering her eddying senses, with the 
strong fact before her that, whatever the terror was, she was 
needed to combat it. 

“ Ay ; thy child ! ” said Kester, taking her almost roughly 
by the arm, and drawing her away with him, out through the 
open doors, on to the quay-side. 

“ Tell me ! ” said Sylvia faintly, “ is she dead ? ” 


Saved and Lost 

“ She’s safe now,” said Kester. “ It’s not her — it’s him 
as saved her as needs yo’, if iver husband needed a wife.” 

“ He ? — ^who ? O Philip ! 0 Philip ! is it yo’ at last ? ” 

Unheeding what spectators might see her movements, she 
threw up her arms, and staggered against the parapet of the 
bridge they were then crossing. 

“ He ! — Philip ! — saved Bella ? Bella, our little Bella, as 
got her dinner by my side, and went out wi’ Jeremiah, as 
well as could be ? I cannot take it in ; tell me, Kester.” She 
kept trembling so much in voice and in body, that he saw she 
could not stir without danger of falling, until she was calmed ; 
as it was, her eyes became filmy from time to time, and she 
drew her breath in great heavy pants, leaning all the while 
against the wall of the bridge. 

“ It were no illness,” Kester began. “ T’ little un had 
gone for a walk wi’ Jeremiah Foster, an’ he were drawn for 
to go round t’ edge o’ t’ cliff, wheere they’s makin’ t’ new 
walk reet o’er t’ sea. But it’s but a bit on a pathway now ; 
an’ t’ one was too oud, an’ t’ other too young for t’ see t’ 
water cornin’ along wi’ great leaps ; it’s allays for cornin’ 
high up again’ t’ cliff, an’ this spring-tide it’s cornin’ in i’ 
terrible big waves. Some one said as they passed t’ man a- 
sittin’ on a bit of a rock, up above— a dunnot know, a only 
know as a beared a great fearful screech i’ t’ air. A were just 
a-restin’ me at after a’d corned in, not half-an-hour i’ t’ place. 
A’ve walked better nor a dozen mile to-day ; an’ a ran out, 
an’ a looked, an’ just on t’ walk, at t’ turn, was t’ swish of a 
wave, runnin’ back, as quick as t’ mischief, inf f sea, an’ oud 
Jeremiah standin’ like one crazy, lookin’ o’er inf f watter ; 
an’ like a stroke o’ leeghtnin’ comes a man, an’ inf f very 
midst o’ f great waves like a shot ; an’ then a knowed 
summut were in f watter as were nearer death than life ; an’ 
a seemed to misdoubt me that it were our Bella ; an’ a shouts, 
an’ a cries for help, an’ a goes mysel’ to f very edge o’ f 
cliff, an’ a bids oud Jeremiah, as was like one beside hissel’, 
houd tight on me, for he were good for nought else ; an’ a 
bides me time, an’ when a sees two arms houdin’ out a little 

519 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

drippin’ streamin’ child, a clutches her by her waist-band, an’ 
hauls her to land. She’s noane t’ worse for her bath, a’ll be 
bound.” 

“I mun go — let me,” said Sylvia, struggling with his 
detaining hand, which he had laid upon her in the fear that 
she would slip down to the ground in a faint, so ashen-grey 
was her face. “ Let me — Bella, I mun go see her.” 

He let go, and she stood still, suddenly feeling herself too 
weak to stir. 

“ Now, if yo’ll try a bit to be quiet, a’ll lead yo’ along ; 
but yo’ mun be a steady and brave lass.” 

“ I’ll be aught, if yo’ll only let me see Bella,” said Sylvia 
humbly. 

“ An’ yo’ niver ax at after him as saved her,” said Kester 
reproachfully. 

“ I know it’s PhiUp,” she whispered ; “ and yo’ said he 
wanted me ; so I know he’s safe ; and, Kester, I think I’m 
’feared on him, and I’d like to gather courage afore seeing 
him ; and a look at Bella would give me courage. It were a 
terrible time when I saw him last, and I did say ” 

“ Niver think on what thou did say ; think on what thou 
will say to him now, for he lies a-dyin’ ! He were dashed 
again’ t’ cliff an’ bruised sore in his innards, afore t’ men as 
come wi’ a boat could pick him up.” 

She did not speak ; she did not even tremble now ; she 
set her teeth together, and, holding tight to Kester, she urged 
him on ; but, when they came to the end of the bridge, she 
seemed uncertain which way to turn. 

“ This way,” said Kester. “ He’s been lodgin’ wi’ Sally 
this nine week, an’ niver a one about t’ place as knowed 
him ; he’s been i’ t’ wars, an’ getten his face brunt.” 

“ And he was short o’ food,” moaned Sylvia, “ and we had 
plenty ; and I tried to make yo’r sister turn him out, and send 
him away ! Oh ! will God iver forgive me ? ” 

Muttering to herself, breaking her mutterings with sharp 
cries of pain, Sylvia, with Kester’s help, reached widow 
Dobson’s house. It was no longer a quiet, lonely dwelling. 

520 


Saved and Lost 

Several sailors stood about the door, waiting, in silent 
anxiety, for the verdict of the doctor, who was even now 
examining Phihp’s injuries. Two or three women stood 
talking eagerly, in low voices, in the doorway. 

But, when Sylvia drew near, the men fell back ; and the 
women moved aside as though to allow her to pass, all look- 
ing upon her with a certain amount of sympathy, but 
perhaps with rather more of antagonistic wonder as to how 
she was taking it — she who had been living in ease and 
comfort, while her husband’s shelter was little better than a 
hovel, her husband’s daily life a struggle with starvation ; for 
so much of the lodger at widow Dohson’s was popularly 
known ; and any distrust of him as a stranger and a tramp 
was quite forgotten now. 

Sylvia felt the hardness of their looks, the hardness of 
their silence ; but it was as nothing to her. If such things 
could have touched her at this moment, she would not have 
stood still, right in the midst of their averted hearts, and 
murmured something to Kester. He could not hear the 
words uttered by that hoarse choked voice, until he had 
stooped down and brought his ear to the level of her mouth. 

“ We’d better wait for t’ doctors to come out,” she said 
again. She stood by the door, shivering all over, almost 
facing the people in the road, but with her face turned a 
little to the right, so that they thought she was looking at 
the pathway on the cliff- side, a hundred yards or so distant, 
helow which the hungry waves still lashed themselves into 
high ascending spray; while nearer to the cottage, where 
their force was broken by the bar at the entrance to the 
river, they came softly lapping up the shelving shore. 

Sylvia saw nothing of all this, though it was straight 
before her eyes. She only saw a blurred mist ; she heard 
no sound of waters, though it filled the ears of those around. 
Instead, she heard low whispers pronouncing Philip’s earthly 
doom. 

For the doctors were both agreed: his internal injury 
of a mortal kind, although, as the spine was severely 
521 


was 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

injured above the seat of the fatal bruise, he had no pain in 
the lower half of his body. 

They had spoken in so low a tone that John Foster, 
standing only a foot or so away, had not been able to hear 
their words. But Sylvia heard each syllable, there where 
she stood outside, shivering all over in the sultry summer 
evening. She turned round to Kester. 

“ I mun go to him, Kester ; thou’U see that noane come 
in to us, when t’ doctors come out.” 

She spoke in a soft, calm voice; and he, not knowing 
what she had heard, made some easy conditional promise. 
Then those opposite to the cottage-door fell back ; for they 
could see the grave doctors coming out, and John Foster, 
graver, sadder still, following them. Without a word to 
them — without a word even of inquiry — which many outside 
thought and spoke of as strange — white-faced, dry-eyed 
Sylvia slipped into the house, out of their sight. 

And the waves kept lapping on the shelving shore. 

The room inside was dark, all except the little halo or 
circle of light made by a dip candle. Widow Dobson had 
her back to the bed — her bed — on to which Philip had been 
borne, in the hurry of terror as to whether he was alive or 
whether he was dead. She was crying — crying quietly, but 
the tears down-falling fast, as, with her back to the lowly 
bed, she was gathering up the dripping clothes cut off from 
the poor maimed body by the doctors’ orders. She only 
shook her head, as she saw Sylvia, spirit-like, steal in — white, 
noiseless, and upborne from earth. 

But, noiseless as her step might be, he heard, he recog- 
nised ; and with a sigh he turned his poor disfigured face to 
the wall, hiding it in the shadow. 

He knew that she was by him ; that she had knelt down 
by his bed ; that she was kissing his hand, over which the 
languor of approaching death was stealing. But no one 
spoke. 

At length he said, his face still averted, speaking with an 
effort — 


522 


Saved and Lost 

“ Little lassie, forgive me now ! I cannot live to see the 
morn ! ” 

There was no answer, only a long miserable sigh ; and he 
felt her soft cheek laid upon his hand, and the quiver that 
ran through her whole body. 

“ I did thee a cruel wrong,” he said at length. “ I see it 
now. But I’m a dying man. I think that God will forgive 
me — and I’ve sinned against Him; try, lassie— try, my 
Sylvie — wilt not thou forgive me ? ” 

He hstened intently for a moment. He heard through 
the open window the waves lapping on the shelving shore. 
But there came no word from her ; only that same long 
shivering, miserable sigh broke from her lips at length. 

“ Child,” said he, once more. “ I ha’ made thee my idol ; 
and, if I could live my life o’er again, I would love my God 
more, and thee less ; and then I shouldn’t ha’ sinned this sin 
against thee. But speak one word of love to me — one little 
word, that I may know I have thy pardon.” 

“ Oh, Philip ! Phihp ! ” she moaned, thus adjured. 

Then she lifted her head, and said — 

“ Them were wicked, wicked words, as I said ; and a 
wicked vow as I vowed ; and Lord God Almighty has ta’en 
me at my word. I’m sorely punished, Philip ; I am indeed.” 

He pressed her hand; he stroked her cheek. But he 
asked for yet another word. 

“ I did thee a wrong. In my lying heart I forgot to do to 
thee as I would have had thee to do to me. And I judged 
Kinraid in my heart.” 

“ Thou thought as he was faithless and fickle,” she 
answered quickly ; “ and so he were. He were married to 
another woman not so many weeks at after thou went away. 
Oh, Philip, Philip ! and now I have thee back, and ” 

“ Dying ” was the word she would have said ; but first the 
dread of telling him what she believed he did not know, and 
next her passionate sobs, choked her. 

“ I know,” said he, once more stroking her cheek, and 
soothing her with gentle, caressing hand. “ Little lassie ! ” 

523 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

he said, after a while, when she was quiet from very exhaus- 
tion, “ I niver thought to be so happy again. God is very 
merciful.” 

She lifted up her head, and asked wildly, “Will He iver 
forgive me, think yo’ ? I drove yo’ out fra’ yo’r home, and 
sent yo’ away to t’ wars, wheere yo’ might ha’ getten yo’r 
death ; and when yo’ came back, poor and lone, and weary, 
I told her for t’ turn yo’ out, for a’ I knew ye’ must be 
starving in these famine-times. I think I shall go about 
among them as gnash their teeth for iver, while yo’ are 
wheere all tears are wiped away. ” 

“ No ! ” said Philip, turning round his face, forgetful of 
himself in his desire to comfort her. “ God pities us, as a 
father pities his poor wandering children ; the nearer I come 
to death, the clearer I see Him. But you and me have done 
wrong to each other ; yet we can see now how we were led 
to it ; we can pity and forgive one another. I’m getting low 
and faint, lassie ; but thou must remember this : God knows 
more, and is more forgiving than either you to me, or me to 
you. I think and do believe as we shall meet together before 
His face ; but then I shall ha’ learnt to love thee second to 
Him ; not first, as I have done here upon the earth.” 

Then he was silent — very still. Sylvia knew — widow 
Dobson had brought it in — that there was some kind of 
medicine, sent by the hopeless doctors, lying upon the table 
hard by, and she softly rose and poured it out and dropped it 
into the half-open mouth. Then she knelt down again, 
holding the hand feebly stretched out to her, and watching 
the faint light in the wistful loving eyes. And in the still- 
ness she heard the ceaseless waves lapping against the 
shelving shore. 

Something like an hour before this time, which was the 
deepest midnight of the summer-night, Hester Eose had 
come hurrying up the road to where Kester and his sister 
sate outside the open door, keeping their watch under the 
star-lit sky ; all others having gone away, one by one, even 
John and Jeremiah Foster having returned to their own 

524 


Saved and Lost 

house, where the little Bella lay, sleeping a sound and 
healthy slumber after her perilous adventure. 

Hester had heard but little from William Barley as to 
the owner of the watch and the half-crown ; but he was 
chagrined at the failure of all his skilful interrogations to 
elicit the truth, and promised her further information in a 
few days, with all the more vehemence because he was un- 
accustomed to be baffled. And Hester had again whispered 
to herself “ Patience ! Patience ! ” and had slowly returned 
back to her home to find that Sylvia had left it — ^why, she did 
not at once discover. But, growing uneasy as the advancing 
hours brought neither Sylvia nor little Bella to their home, 
she had set out for Jeremiah Poster’s, as soon as she had seen 
her mother comfortably asleep in her bed ; and then she had 
learnt the whole story, bit by bit, as each person who spoke 
broke in upon the previous narration with some new par- 
ticular. But from no one did she clearly learn whether 
Sylvia was with her husband, or not ; and so she came 
speeding along the road, breathless, to where Kester sate in 
wakeful, mournful silence, his sister’s sleeping head lying on 
his shoulder, the cottage-door open, both for air and that 
there might be help within call, if needed ; and the dim 
slanting oblong of the interior light lying across the road. 

Hester came panting up, too agitated and breathless to 
ask how much was truth of the fatal, hopeless tale which 
she had heard. Kester looked at her without a word. 
Through this solemn momentary silence the lapping of the 
ceaseless waves was heard, as they came up close on the 
shelving shore. 

“He? Philip?” said she. Kester shook his head 
sadly. 

“ And his wife — Sylvia ? ” said Hester. 

“ In there with him, alone,” whispered Kester. 

Hester turned away, and wrung her hands together. 

“ Oh, Lord God Almighty ! ” said she, “was I not even 
worthy to bring them together at last ? ” And she went 
away, slowly and heavily, back to the side of her sleeping 

525 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

mother. But “ Thy will be done ” was on her quivering lips, 
before she lay down to her rest. 

The soft grey dawn lightens the darkness of a mid- 
summer night soon after two o’clock. Philip watched it 
come, knowing that it was his last sight of day — as we 
reckon days on earth. 

He had been often near death as a soldier ; once or 
twice, as when he rushed into fire to save Kinraid, his 
chances of hfe had been as one to a hundred ; but yet he 
had had a chance. But now there was the new feeling — the 
last new feeling which we shall, any of us, experience in this 
world — that death was not only inevitable, but close at hand. 

He felt its numbness stealing up him — stealing up him. 
But the head was clear, the brain more than commonly 
active in producing vivid impressions. 

It seemed but yesterday since he was a little boy at his 
mother’s knee, wishing with all the earnestness of his 
childish heart to be like Abraham, who was called “ the friend 
of God,” or David, who was said to be “ the man after God’s 
own heart,” or St. John, who was called “ the Beloved.” As 
very present seemed the day on which he made resolutions 
of trying to be like them ; it was in the spring, and some one 
had brought in cowslips : and the scent of those flowers was 
in his nostrils now, as he lay a-dying — his life ended, his 
battles fought, his time for “ being good ” over and gone — 
the opportunity, once given in all eternity, past. 

All the temptations that had beset him rose clearly before 
him ; the scenes themselves stood up in their solid materialism 
— he could have touched the places, the people ; the thoughts, 
the arguments that Satan had urged in behalf of sin, were 
reproduced with the vividness of a present time. And he 
knew that the thoughts were illusions, the arguments false 
and hollow ; for in that hour came the perfect vision of the 
perfect truth : he saw the “ way to escape ” which had come 
along with the temptation ; now, the strong resolve of an 
ardent boyhood, with all a life before it to show the world 
what a Christian might me ; ” and then, the swift, terrible 
526 


Saved and Lost 

Now, when his naked, gnilty soul shrank into the shadow of 
God s mercy-seat, out of the blaze of His anger against all 
those who act a lie. 

His mind was wandering, and he plucked it back. Was 
this death in very deed ? He tried to grasp at the present, 
the earthly present, fading quick away. He lay there on the 
bed — on Sally Dobson’s bed in the house-place, not on his 
accustomed pallet in the lean-to. He knew that much. 
And the door was open into the still, dusk night ; and 
through the open casement he could hear the lapping of the 
waves on the shelving shore, could see the soft grey dawn 
over the sea — he knew it was over the sea — he saw what lay 
unseen behind the poor walls of the cottage. And it was 
Sylvia who held his hand tight in her warm, living grasp ; it 
was his wife whose arm was thrown around him, whose 
sobbing sighs shook his numbed frame from time to time. 

“ God bless and comfort my darling,” he said to himself. 
“ She knows me now. All will be right in heaven — in the 
light of God’s mercy.” 

And then he tried to remember all that he had ever read 
about God, and all that the blessed Christ — that bringeth 
glad tidings of great joy unto all people, had said of the 
Father, from whom He came. Those sayings dropped like 
balm down upon his troubled heart and brain. He remem- 
bered his mother, and how she had loved him ; and he was 
going to a love wiser, tenderer, deeper than hers. 

As he thought this, he moved his hands as if to pray; 
but Sylvia clenched her hold, and he lay still, praying all the 
same for her, for his child, and for himself. Then he saw the 
sky redden with the first flush of dawn ; he heard Fester’s 
long-drawn sigh of weariness outside the open door. 

He had seen widow Dobson pass through, long before, to 
keep the remainder of her watch on the bed in the lean-to, 
which had been his for many and many a sleepless and 
tearful night. Those nights were over — he should never see 
that poor chamber again, though it was scarce two feet dis- 
tant. He began to lose all sense of the comparative duration 

527 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

of time : it seemed as long since kind Sally Dobson had bent 
over him 'with soft, lingering look, before going into the 
humble sleeping-room — as long as it 'was since his boyhood, 
'when he stood by his mother dreaming of the life that should 
be his, with the scent of the cowslips tempting him to be off 
to the woodlands where they grew. Then there came a rush 
and an eddying through his brain — his soul trying her wings 
for the long flight. Again he was in the present : he heard 
the waves lapping against the shelving shore once again. 

And now his thoughts came back to SyMa. Once more 
he spoke aloud, in a strange and terrible voice, which was 
not his. Every sound came with efforts that were new to 
him. 

“ My wife ! SyMe ! Once more — forgive me all.” 

She sprang up, she kissed his poor burnt lip§ ; she held 
him in her arms, she moaned, and said — 

“ Oh, wicked me ! forgive me — me — Philip ! ” 

Then he spoke, and said, “ Lord, forgive us our tres- 
passes, as we forgive each other ! ” And after that the power 
of speech was conquered by the coming death. He lay very 
still, his consciousness fast fading away, yet coming back in 
throbs, so that he knew it was Sylvia who touched his lips 
with cordial, and that it was Sylvia who murmured words of 
love in his ear. He seemed to sleep at last, and so he did — 
a kind of sleep, but the light of the red morning sun fell on 
his eyes, and with one strong effort he rose up, and turned 
so as once more to see his wife’s pale face of misery. 

“ In heaven ! ” he cried; and a bright smile came on his 
face, as he fell back on his pillow. 

Not long after Hester came, the little Bella scarce awake 
in her arms, with the purpose of bringing his child to see 
him ere yet he passed away. Hester had watched and 
prayed through the livelong night. And now she found him 
dead, and Sylvia, tearless and almost unconscious, lying by 
him, her hand holding his, her arm thrown around him. 

Kester, poor old man, was sobbing bitterly ; but she not 
at all. 


528 


Saved and Lost 

Then Hester bore her child to her, and Sylvia opened 
wide her miserable eyes, and only stared, as if all sense was 
gone from her. But Bella, suddenly rousing up at the sight 
of the poor, scarred, peaceful face, cried out — 

“ Poor man who was so hungry. Is he not hungry 
now ? ” 

“No,” said Hester softly. “ The former things are 
passed away — and he is gone where there is no more sorrow, 
and no more pain.” 

But then she broke down into weeping and crying. 
Sylvia sat up and looked at her. 

“ Why do yo’ cry, Hester ? ” she said. “ Yo’ niver said 
that yo’ wouldn’t forgive him as long as yo’ lived. Yo’ niver 
broke the heart of him that loved yo’, and let him almost 
starve at yo’r very door. Oh, Philip ! my Philip, tender and 
true ! ” 

Then Hester came round, and closed the sad half-open 
eyes ; kissing the calm brow with a long farewell kiss. As 
she did so, her eye fell on a black ribbon round his neck. 
She partly lifted it out ; to it was hung a half-crown piece. 

“ This is the piece he left at William Barley’s to be 
bored,” said she, “not many days ago.” 

Bella had crept to her mother’s arms, as a known haven 
in this strange place ; and the touch of his child loosened 
the fountains of her tears. She stretched out her hand for 
the black ribbon, put it round her own neck ; after a while 
she said — 

“ If I live very long, and try hard to be very good all 
that time, do yo’ think, Hester, as God will let me to him 
where he is ? ” 

Monkshaven is altered now into a rising bathing-place. 
Yet, standing near the site of widow Dobson’s house on a 
summer’s night, at the ebb of a spring- tide, you may hear 
the waves come lapping up the shelving shore, with the same 
ceaseless, ever-recurrent sound as that which Philip listened 
to, in the pauses between life and death. 

529 


2 M 


Sylvia’s Lovers 

And so it will be, until “there shall be, no more sea.” 

But the memory of man fades away. A few old people 
can still tell you the tradition of the man who died in a 
cottage somewhere about this spot — died of starvation, while 
his wife hved in hard-hearted plenty not two good stone- 
throws away. This is the form into which popular feeling, 
and ignorance of the real facts, have moulded the story. 
Not long since, a lady went to the “ Pubhc Baths,” a hand- 
some stone building erected on the very site of widow 
Dobson’s cottage, and, finding all the rooms engaged, she sat 
down and had some talk with the bathing- woman ; and, as 
it chanced, the conversation fell on Phihp Hepburn and the 
legend of his fate. 

“ I knew an old man when I was a girl,” said the bathing- 
woman, “ as could niver abide to hear t’ wife blamed. He 
would say nothing again’ th’ husband ; he used to say as it 
were not fit for men to be judging; that she had had her 
sore trial, as well as Hepburn hisself.” 

The lady asked, “ What became of the wife ? ” 

“ She was a pale, sad woman, allays dressed in black. I 
can just remember her when I was a little child, but she died 
before her daughter was well grown up ; and Miss Rose took 
t’ lassie, as had always been like her own.” 

“ Miss Rose ? ” 

“ Hester Rose ! have yo’ niver beared of Hester Rose, she 
as founded t’ alms-houses for poor disabled sailors and soldiers 
on t’ Horncastle road ? There’s a piece o’ stone in front, to 
say that ‘ This building is erected in memory of P. H.’ — and 
some folk will have it P. H. stands for t’ name o’ th’ man as 
was starved to death.” 

“ And the daughter ? ” 

“ One o’ th’ Posters, them as founded t’ Old Bank, left 
her a vast o’ money; and she were married to a distant 
cousin of theirs, and went off to settle in America, many and 
many a year ago.” 


530 


AN ITALIAN INSTITUTION 


When the traveller, only a few years ago, entered Naples 
from the sea, he was struck by the circumstance that as he 
handed the boatman his fare, a man suddenly appeared, who 
looked on at the payment, and then, receiving a certain 
small part of it, went his way without a word. The same 
ceremony, with a different individual for the actor, occurred 
as the traveller paid his cab-fare to the hotel, and paid the 
porter who took down his luggage ; and, doubtless, had he 
been able to see it, he would have recognised a similar 
agency at work when he discharged the bill of his landlord. 
The “servitore di piazza,” who accompanied him to the Opera, 
was met by one of these mysterious figures. Even down to 
the itinerant orange-vendor, or the fabricator of cooling 
drinks on the Chiaja, all were visited, all were alike subject 
to this strange supervision. If, tempted by the curiosity 
natural on such a theme, the stranger asked for an explana- 
tion, he was told, with a significance which implied that 
further elucidation was better avoided, “ La Camorra.” 

What does La Camorra mean? Etymologically, it is 
not easy to say. The word would seem to have come from 
a Spanish origin ; as the practice which it commemorates, 
lovers of Italy are fain to beheve, was also derived from 
Spain. It is, to use the simplest of all illustrations, a system 
of black-mail, so extended and organised as to apply to every 
walk in life, and every condition of human industry. From 
the affluent merchant with his argosies on the seas, to the 
humblest “ faquino ” on the Molo — all are its victims. From 
the minister in his cabinet, or the professor in his chair, 

531 


An Italian Institution 

down to him who asks alms at the door of the church, or the 
very galley-slave whose chains clank as he moves in his 
weary labour — all pay their quota in this iniquitous exaction, 
and all recognise in its infliction the existence of a system 
which no Bourbon government ever yet dared to grapple 
with, and of the success in mastering which, of the present 
rulers of South Italy, I am very far indeed from confident. 

Corruptions of a government are very speedily propagated 
through every class, and for a long series of years the sway 
of the Neapolitan Bourbons has been httle else than an 
organised intimidation. Every one was under the influence 
of terror, and the dread of being “ denounced ” was universal. 
The oppressed were not slow to learn the lesson of the 
oppressors ; and thus grew up crops of secret societies, which, 
ostensibly organised for self-protection, soon became agents 
of the most oppressive and cruel tyranny. Of these the 
Camorra was the chief, representing within its limits all that 
Thuggee is to the Bengalese, Whiteboyism to the Irish, and 
the old Highland system of black-mail to the natives of the 
north of Scotland. 

Had the working of the association contemplated nothing 
beyond the exaction of a tax, without assuming, or affecting 
to assume, some relative obligations, it is likely enough that 
it might have been long since resisted. La Camorra was, 
however, ingenious enough to pretend to a paternal care for 
its followers, and it at least provided that they should not be 
robbed or pillaged by any other agency than its own. For 
this purpose, a careful selection of those who were to carry 
out its edicts was necessary, and admission into the order 
was only obtained after due and unquestionable proofs of 
courage and boldness. In fact, the first task usually pro- 
posed to an aspirant for the Camorra was an assassination ; 
and, if he shrank from the task, to ensure secresy his own 
hfe always paid the penalty. 

The society consisted of a number of distinct groups or 
knots, under the guidance of a chief — the Capo di Camorra, 
as he was called — who treasured the revenues that were 

532 


An Italian Institution 

brought in, and distributod tho payments to the followers 
with an admirable fairness and regularity. These sums, 
collected in the most minute fractions from every .fashion and 
form of human industry, and even by levying toll upon the 
gains of mendicancy, rose to very considerable amounts, and 
were sensibly felt in the diminished revenues of the state, 
which they in a measure anticipated and supplanted. 

While the Bourbon government tolerated this gross abuse 
as exercised among the humhle classes of its subjects, it also 
availed itself of the Camorra as a means of intimidation or 
vengeance, and gave up the whole discipline of its prisons to 
this infamous sect. Here it was, in reality, that the Camorra 
ruled supreme. The newly-admitted prisoner had hut to 
pass the threshold of his cell, to feel himself in its toils. The 
first demand usually made was for a contribution to the lamp 
in honour of the Virgin, over the door ; for the Camorra is 
strictly religious, and would not think of dedicating a locality 
to its vices without assuring itself of the friendly protection 
of a chosen saint. The privilege to possess money, to buy 
food or eat it, to smoke, drink, gamble, or sing, was taxed ; 
and the faintest show of resistance was met by the knife. 
Indeed, he who determined to resent the dictation of the 
Camorra soon saw that he must place life on the issue. If, 
aided by a stout heart and strong hand, he conquered his 
adversary, he was himself at once affiliated into the society, 
and was recognised by its members as worthy of the order. 
In this way a priest, who sturdily resented an attempt to 
extort money from him, and who, in the struggle that ensued, 
fatally wounded his antagonist, was presented with a power- 
ful stick by an unknown hand, and handsomely complimented 
on the courage by which he had distinguished himself. 
Though the Camorra, therefore, declared its protective care 
of all beneath its rules, it never vindicated the fate of those 
who defended themselves ill ; nay, it took measures always 
to mark that courage was the first of gifts, and that he who 
was unequal to his own defence could not be relied upon to 
protect others. Success, too, was exalted to the position of 

533 


An Italian Institution 

a test, and no extenuating circumstances, no plausibilities, 
could absolve him who failed. There was an obvious policy- 
in this. The system depended entirely upon intimidation ; 
and it was, above all things, necessary that the opinion 
should prevail that its victims never escaped. So wide- 
spread and general was this impression, that every secret 
vengeance, every dark and untracked crime, was unhesi- 
tatingly referred to the “ Camorristi.” With such an unrelent- 
ing persistence were they wont to track and hunt down their 
victims, that men have been known to commit crimes, and 
get consigned to prison, for no other object than to be fellow- 
prisoners with one whom they had doomed to destruction. 

Outside the limits of their own sect, the Camorristi pre- 
tehded to be, and in some respects were, the friends of order ; 
that is, they lent a willing aid to the police to track out all 
malefactors who were not Camorristi. They were ever ready 
to suppress riot in the streets, to arrange disputes that grew 
up at play, and to arbitrate between contending gamblers. 
They assumed at times, too, the functions of benevolence, 
and took upon them the care of the suffering or of those 
wounded by the accidents of street-warfare. 

Of the modes in which they contributed to establish 
something like discipline in the prisons the police-reports 
are full. The mean and cowardly jailers relied upon them 
almost exclusively for the maintenance of order ; and when- 
ever, from any chance outbreak among the prisoners, some 
feat of personal daring would be called for, it was at the 
hands of a Camorristo it would be required. When it is 
borne in mind that the Camorra was thus regarded and 
recognised by the state, it need be little wondered at that its 
exactions were submitted to with patient obedience by the 
poor, unprotected and undefended as they were. 

A market- gardener at one of the city gates was lately 
congratulated that the odious imposts of the Camorra were 
no more, and that he had no longer to groan under the 
insolent tyranny of this robber association. His answer was, 
“ So much the worse. The Camorra demanded his mulct, it 

534 


An Italian Institution 

is true, but gave us protection in return. It watched after 
our property in the streets, and suffered none to defraud us. 
If we have lost one robber, we have gained thirty.” And so, 
through every industry that the poorest live by, was the 
Camorra recognised. It was the ever-present help to every 
form of human wretchedness, indicating — just as disease 
will sometimes indicate the remedy — how a people might be 
cared for and guided and protected, their lives assured, their 
property defended, had the government that ruled them been 
only more eager for the good of those under its sway than 
for a demoralisation and abasement which made them easier 
to control, and fitter tools of despotism. 

In the lottery, the Camorra played a distinguished part, 
the news of the successful numbers being transmitted hither 
and thither by the fraternity with a speed and exactitude 
that the telegraph itself never rivalled. To the poor and 
unlettered man, awaiting his fate at some remote village, and 
not trusting to public sources of information, it is scarcely 
credible what a boon was the intelligence brought by some 
Camorristo, who even could lighten the load of heavy fortune 
by assurances of better luck in store, or some explanation as 
to the peculiar causes which were then so adverse to his 
benefit. 

As the lowest venture in the state lottery is four carlini, 
or about a franc and a half, on the Saturday, the last day of 
the venture, it is rare for the poor Neapolitan who has played 
during the entire week to find a single grain in his pocket. 
With, however, the very smallest coin he can scrape out of it, 
he repairs to the office of some secret Camorristo, and by his 
intervention is able to associate himself with others as poor 
and as speculative as himself, and by whose conjoint efforts 
the requisite sum is made up. If the venture should win, 
the Camorristo distributes the gain with a marvellous probity 
and accuracy ; when a failure is announced, not the slightest 
shadow of a doubt ever obtains as to the fairness and credit 
to the Camorristo who proclaims it. 

The tax of the Camorra was not, however, limited to the 

535 


An Italian Institution 

vices of the poor roan. An agent of the sect vras to be seen 
at fashionable gaming-tables, and at the doors of houses of 
private play, exacting his “ tenth,” the recognised mulct, vrith 
a regularity that shov7ed how the “ institution ” was regarded. 

As, in that open-air life popular in the south, a party have 
been amusing themselves with a game at cards before their 
own door of an evening, an agent of the Gamorra has suddenly 
appeared to claim his dividend. Though assured that they 
are playing for nothing, it avails not ; he regrets the circum- 
stance with politeness, but reasserts his claim, and with 
success ; for all are aware that, however luck may vacillate at 
play, he who resists the Gamorra defies fate and fortune. 

The very fact that the Gamorra had never connected 
itself with politics rendered it a useful agent in the hands of 
a corrupt and tyrannical government. The severities which 
the Liberal party well knew they had to expect from the state 
were, however, as nothing, compared to the atrocities in store, 
if the Gamorra should be loosened upon them. It was by 
dark hints at such a day of reckoning that Ferdinand held in 
check those who would not have feared to adventure their 
fortune in a contest with all the force of government. ' It was 
also by appealing to this sect that the king professed to enjoy 
that popularity among his subjects, by which he replied to 
the energetic protests of France and England. 

“ Ask the Neapolitans how they feel towards me ! ” said 
he to M. Bresson, the French minister, who had, in writing 
home to his court, to own that the lowest rabble of Naples 
entertained for the king a devotion that was marvellous. In 
fact, the only offences which never could be pardoned under 
the Bourbon dynasty, were those against the state. The 
terrible crimes which rend society in twain ; the fearful acts 
which make men almost despair of humanity ; were all more 
or less mercifully dealt with. Talarico, for instance, the 
assassin of a dozen people, was banished to a pleasant and 
salubrious island, pensioned, and set at liberty. The world 
knows the story of Poerio and his companions in the terrible 
scenes of ’49. The lowest populace sided entirely with the 

536 


An Italian Institution 

monarchy, and this show of popular sympathy offered to 
strangers one of the most puzzling and difficult problems of 
the day. Minister after minister wrote home to their several 
courts, “We cannot deny, as little can we explain, the 
marvellous popularity the king enjoys.” 

“ Which of your masters,” said the king, on one day of 
a court-reception, to the assembled ambassadors — “ which of 
your masters can go amongst his people with more confidence 
than I can ? Come down with me into the street, and see 
whether I am loved by my people I ” 

At length, the Liberal party found means to open negotia- 
tions with the leaders of the Camorra. They were not very 
promising, it is true, and vouched little for the patriotic 
aspirations of these sectaries, who only saw in the prospect 
of a revolution a question of their own material benefit. The 
Camorristi talked big ; spoke of their numbers, their courage, 
and so forth ; but did nothing beyond excite the fears of the 
royalists, who really dreaded them with a most dispro- 
portionate terror. At length, the prefect of police determined 
on the bold step of arresting the Camorristi, and banishing 
them to Ischia ; and out of this imprisonment they grew, as 
fellow-sufferers with Poerio and Spaventa, to regard them- 
selves as political martyrs and patriots. Liberated on 
Garibaldi’s entrance into Naples, their first act was to attack 
all the agents of the police, and destroy all the documents of 
that office. They were, in twenty-four hours, the masters of 
the capital. It was in this contingency that Liborio Eomano 
bethought himself of enlisting these men in the cause of 
order and law. On one side was a baffied, enraged, and 
dishonoured soldiery, ready for pillage, and eager to cover 
their shame by acts of outrage and violence; on the other 
were the helpless, unarmed, and trembling citizens. The 
old police was disbanded; the National Guard not yet 
organised ; the priestly party only waiting for opportunity to 
renew the atrocious scenes of ten years before. They had 
even hired stores to receive the pillage! It was, it is said, 
at the suggestions of an old Bourbon adherent, a general, 

537 


An Italian Institution 

that Liborio Eomano took this daring step. “ Do as we did 
in times of danger ; fall back on the mob,” was the counsel. 
Blame him as one may, the Camorra saved Naples ! 

Emboldened by his success, Liborio Romano now organ- 
ised them into a sort of regular police-force, under their own 
chiefs ; and, marvellous to say, for the first month or two the 
experiment would seem to have succeeded. Crime of all 
sorts diminished, and especially theft. Armed simply with 
staves, and only distinguished by a tricolour cockade, they 
very soon obtained by their boldness and courage an amount 
of influence far greater than that enjoyed by the late police. 
But stranger than their bravery was their honesty: in- 
numerable are the facts on record of their self-denial in 
temptation, and their rigid integrity ; and there is no doubt 
that they mainly contributed to that new-born enthusiasm 
for Garibaldi, whose greatest triumph ever was to evoke 
from popular masses whatever was good, or great, or hopeful, 
in their natures. 

“ See what such a people may become when the causes 
of their demoralisation are removed. Look at the virtues 
these men exhibit, and say, is theirs a nation to be despaired 
of ? ” was the language on every side. 

The first enthusiasm over, however, the Camorristi seemed 
to revert to their old instincts. They were not bandits nor 
galley-slaves ; but they were men of strong frames, violent 
passions, long-accustomed to lead lives of unrestrained 
license, and to see themselves universally dreaded. Without 
ceasing to be a police, then, they introduced into their 
discipline all the oppressions and exactions of the Camorra. 
Their first care was to take all smuggling under their especial 
protection. Under the Bourbon dynasty, contraband had long 
ceased to find any shame attach to its exercise. The most 
respectable merchants defrauded the government, without a 
particle of remorse, and without any sense of dishonour. 
The frauds were arranged between the chiefs of the Camorra 
and the officers of the customs, and a regular tariff was 
established — about one-fourth of that ruled by the state. 

538 


An Italian Institution 

On the arrival of Garibaldi, however, the Camorristi, no 
longer content with half-measures, assumed all contraband 
as their own especial perquisites. A certain' Salvatore de 
Crescenza, a well-known Camorristo, took the port-dues under 
his peculiar care; and from forty- thousand ducats, which 
was the daily receipt, the dues of Naples fell to short of one 
thousand ! 

A no less celebrated leader, Pasquale Menotte, took charge 
of the “ octroi ” at the gates. No sooner did a waggon arrive 
laden with wine, or meat, or any excisable articles, than the 
Camorristi presented themselves, arms in hand, to the 
customs officials, and crying out, “ Let it pass — it is for 
Garibaldi ! ” The order was instantly obeyed, and the tax was 
paid to the Camorra in the very presence of the officers of 
the government. Strangest of all, the tax now imposed was 
a mere fraction less than that imposed by the state ; and so 
complete was the intermediation, that the people actually 
preferred to hand the sum to the Camorristi rather than to 
the servants of the government. It may be imagined to 
what an extent this fraud was practised, when the receipts of 
all the gates of the city in one day, realised only twenty-five 
soldi — about twopence of our money ! 

Spaventa, a fellow- sufferer with Poerio, a man of daring 
boldness and consummate craft, was the prefect of police ; 
he resolved on a step of no mean courage. He arrested one 
hundred Camorristi on a single night ; dissolved the whole 
“ Guardia CeUadina,” as it was called ; and established in its 
stead a guard of public safety, over whose organisation he 
had for some time sedulously and carefully watched. It has 
been alleged that Spaventa used but little discrimination in 
his act of repression; that some tried patriots and brave 
followers of Garibaldi were included among those of less 
fame and more damaged reputations ; but it was a moment 
of great peril, and admitted of little time for selection. The 
resources of the state were being preyed upon on all sides. 
Peculation was in high places as well as in low ; and a letter 
to the formidable Camorristi was certain to take effect. 

539 


An Italian Institution 

The government by this act severed itself at once and for 
ever from all connexion with the Camorra. Every day has 
widened the breach, and every day sees the powers of the 
state more stringently exercised towards those who declare 
that they are an institution of the land, and that they are 
determined to hold their own against the present government 
as they did against the last. Thus the Camorra has in latter 
times undergone four distinct mutations. Under the reign 
of Ferdinand the Second, it acted as the secret police ; under 
his son Francis, it became the ally of the Liberals ; beneath 
the revolution it performed the functions of a police ; and 
now, under Victor Emmanuel, it declares itself persecuted, 
and pronounces for the return of the Bourbons. 

Profiting by the facihties which a state of siege confers 
upon a governor. General La Marmora made a most vigorous 
onslaught on the Camorra. Vast numbers have already 
been arrested, and the jails of even Florence and Turin are 
filled with these southern depredators. The more active the 
measures taken, the more does the extent of the disease 
manifest itself ; the Camorra is now found to have pene- 
trated the public service in every direction, to abound in the 
ranks of the army, and to have its followers in the navy. 





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